


Rauxon? Fennar? There’s Not A Ship Name For This

by nsfwscream



Category: Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: Aftercare (kind of), Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Begging, Blow Jobs, Dirty Talk, Extremely Dubious Consent, Frottage, Hand Jobs, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rimming, Rough Sex, Shower Sex, Size Difference, Webcam/Video Chat Sex, Wet Dream, actually I lied there's plot now!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2020-05-13 10:15:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 38,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19249126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nsfwscream/pseuds/nsfwscream
Summary: Fenn Rau's return to Concord Dawn happens much sooner, the Protectors aren't wiped out, and Gar Saxon is still very much an asshole.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [A Game with Added Reality](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10741503) by [fandumbandflummery](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fandumbandflummery/pseuds/fandumbandflummery). 



> More porn directly inspired by someone else's fic, and also the ficlet that _it_ was based on 
> 
> I'm not usually one for actual, direct dub/non-con, so this is probably one of the only times I'll write it, but Fenn/Gar really caught my eye and it just works
> 
> Shout out to fandumbandflummery and wondersmithofastronautalis (Hline here on ao3) for writing what I'm pretty sure is the OG Fenn/Gar smut  
> idk if fandumbandflummery is still active here, but their tumblr is gone and I'm sad

From the moment he’d been captured, Fenn knew it would take very little time for his luck to run out. When Sato revealed that the rebels had lost contact with the Protectors, he was grimly certain that what he was insisting to the rebels was right – was certain that Saxon had made good on his threats, when Fenn’s men had covered for his absence one too many times. That was the entire reason he’d agreed to the bastard’s sick “deal” in the first place, and why he hadn’t snapped and ended it since. The man was vicious and bloody minded, any loyalty he might have had only extending to what he could use for his own benefit. Without Fenn there to keep him pacified, Saxon likely saw no use keeping the Protectors around.

Now he was on a ship back to Concord Dawn for the first time in months, after surprisingly little convincing on his part. He was still in binders of course, but it was shockingly easy to distract Bridger and give himself the opportunity to slowly loosen his restraints. Wren was in the cockpit for most of the flight, which was extremely good luck; She wouldn’t have been nearly as easy to distract for the hour they were in hyperspace. When they finally dropped out, Bridger made the mistake of leaving him unattended, turning his back on Fenn to marvel at the shattered remains of Concord Dawn.

Fenn didn’t waste a second; the moment Bridger was completely distracted, Fenn popped open the binders without a sound, coming up behind the padawan and slamming them into the back of his neck, hard enough to knock him out cold. He pulled the blaster from Bridger’s holster as he fell, turning and stunning Wren before she could get a shot off at him. Fenn drags them both to the back and cuffs them together, then pilots the shuttle through the still-familiar route back to the Protectors camp. He hopes that he’s wrong about why they lost contact with the rebels, even as unlikely as he knows that to be. He lands on the first familiar hill he finds, one that he remembers overlooks the camp, and he’s out of the shuttle before the engines have even finished spinning down.

The shuttle hadn’t been hailed on approach, just one more sign that something was very wrong, and now Fenn’s grimly determined to see for himself what’s become of his men. He climbs the hill, more like a small butte really, his grip on his stolen blaster tightening the closer he gets to the top, and he braces himself for the worst as the camp comes into view. Fenn stops and blinks a few times when it does, his eyebrows jumping up in surprise.

Far from the death and destruction he’d been expecting, everything looked completely normal. Then he looks a little closer, and his eyes narrow. The camp looked fine, sure, but that just made the lack of visible activity more suspicious. There were no sentries on patrol, no mechanics working on fighters, no one _anywhere_ that he could see. He’s scanning the surrounding hills when he hears the scuff of boots on stone behind him, and he raises his blaster as he turns to face it. Fenn thought he’d have more time before the rebels managed to free themselves, but Wren is there, both blasters aimed at him while Bridger pulls himself up behind her. She fires before Fenn can, neatly taking the blaster out of his hand, and he hisses at the sting it leaves.

“Hands up,” Wren orders as Bridger gets to his feet, her aim unwavering where it’s still trained on Fenn. He grudgingly raises his hands, scowling at the both of them when Bridger comes forward and cuffs him again. Wren holsters just one blaster, keeping the other out and ready, a silent deterrent against any more escape attempts.

“Things look fine to me,” Bridger says, looking out over the eerily silent camp and then glancing around them, “And if there was a trap, I think we would have sprung it by now. Must just be some faulty comms equipment.” He shrugs and grabs Fenn by the upper arm, trying to pull him back in the direction of the shuttle, but he doesn’t budge.

“No, something isn’t right,” Fenn insists, glaring at Bridger until Wren steps up to the edge next to them.

“He’s right,” she says, drawing their attention, “Something’s up.” At that Bridger’s expression grows serious, and he scans the camp again with a more critical eye. Wren is just reaching for her holstered blaster when the whistle of an incoming missile sounds from behind them. They all turn, just in time to see it hurtling towards them, but not nearly enough time to react. Fenn only manages to bring his arms up to shield his face before it hits, knocking them all off their feet. It sends Fenn flying off the edge of the butte and into freefall, too far from its sheer sides to try and grab on. There’s a ringing in his ears from the explosion, making his head spin as he tries to right himself enough to not break his neck on impact. The ground is rushing up to meet him though, and he knows he doesn’t have enough time to reorient himself, he’ll still be turned the wrong way.

Distantly, he wonders if this is really how he’s going to die – cuffed and falling to his death, still a rebel prisoner. Not exactly the way he’d thought he might die, but there wasn’t much he could do about it now. So Fenn grits his teeth and clenches his eyes shut, shields his head with his arms as best he can, and braces for the pain he’ll be feeling if this doesn’t kill him.

Based on how he’s falling, Fenn expects to land arms-first, probably breaking them in the process and hopefully taking enough of the initial impact that his head wouldn’t crack open against the ground and his neck wouldn’t snap. Instead, something slams into his chest and stomach, knocking the breath out of him and abruptly changing the trajectory of his fall from down to sideways. His eyes water as he coughs and gasps for breath, holding on tightly to whatever it is that’s hit him.

It takes a long, agonizing minute for him to catch his breath, but even distracted as he is, he notices the pressure of something around his waist and the wind whipping against his back. He hears someone say something right next to his head, but the words are still too muffled to make out past the ringing in his ears. Fenn blinks rapidly to clear away the involuntary tears of pain, only to find Gar Saxon’s familiar red helmet staring back at him.

“Saxon?” Fenn says, too surprised to muster his usual disdain for the man’s presence. His hearing’s finally fading back in, and he can hear himself when he talks. With it comes the sounds of nearby blasterfire, and when he looks over Saxon’s shoulder he can see a group of his men firing at the rebels’ fleeing shuttle, a handful of Saxon’s white-armored commandos giving chase in the air. He and Saxon are still midair themselves, though they’ve slowed to a stop and turned so Saxon can watch the rebels retreat. They’re high enough that Fenn’s fingers tighten their grip on the top edge of Saxon’s breastplate, in spite of the solid weight of Saxon’s arm keeping Fenn pressed tight against him. It’s clear enough that Saxon has a part in setting this trap for the rebels, and subsequently rescuing him, but Fenn doesn’t think for a second that there isn’t going to be a price to pay for his “help”.

“Get those fighters in the air, I want that shuttle disabled and those rebels brought back alive,” Saxon orders, the indistinct buzz of a response through his helmet’s comm audible to Fenn from this close. Then his visor turns back to Fenn, the smug grin clear in his voice when he says, “Hello, Rau.” It’s more than enough to put a scowl on Fenn’s face, and he has to fight the urge to push himself out of Saxon’s grip and put some distance between them.

“How?” Fenn doesn’t bother with pleasantries, or expanding his question, but Saxon catches his meaning just fine.

“Your men aren’t very good at covering for you,” he says, his mood undamped as he angles back towards camp, touching down outside the canteen just as a pair of fighters come blazing overhead. “That, and one of them actually came to ask me for help. I’d be surprised any of them could swallow their pride long enough to do it, but thanks to you I know better.” That’s nearly enough to make Fenn doubletake, and it’s an effort to keep his mouth shut and refrain from starting a fight while he’s still cuffed. He instead turns his focus to the fact that Saxon has yet to release him, the arm around his waist still holding him a good few inches off the ground, and chest to chest with Saxon, with seemingly little effort.

“Are you going to put me down? Or are you getting sentimental in your old age?” Fenn sneers, pushing at Saxon’s chest and leaning away from him. The arm around him doesn’t budge, and in fact tightens fractionally. Saxon does lower him enough so he can stand on his own two feet, if only so he can lean forward and loom over him now.

“What, no thank you? I rescued you from the rebels _and_ saved your life, after all.” Saxon sounds much too entertained by the entire situation for Fenn’s liking, and he eyes the blank face of his helmet for information he knows it’s not going to give him. He jumps when Saxon’s free hand comes up to grab his ass, pulling Fenn’s hips flush with his own. “I think I deserve a reward.”

A flash of panic goes through Fenn at the blatant manhandling in the middle of camp, where he can hear the sounds of fighting have stopped and his men could return at any second. Saxon chuckles and abruptly releases him, leaving Fenn to stumble backward a few feet before he rights himself.

“I’ll be back to collect on that later, after I’ve dealt with your little rebel problem. Try not to get yourself captured again,” Saxon sneers, taking off before Fenn can muster a response.

Fenn glares at his retreating form as it joins with a pair of super commandos, before all three disappear behind a hill, and he flushes with indignant anger, growling a few choice insults about Saxon’s family lineage as he gets to work on his cuffs. He’s managed to pop them open again in the few minutes it takes for his men to arrive, and they greet him with a few hearty claps to the back, like he’d been gone for a few weeks rather than a few months. He’s somehow herded into the canteen and gets sat down with a bowl of stew, eating while his officers catch him up on what he’s missed and a med droid checks him over. He’d usually protest the treatment, but now that Saxon is gone Fenn can admit that he’s tired, the months of captivity draining despite being treated well by the rebels.

Saxon’s words weigh on his mind though, and he spends the entire time carefully considering who might have disobeyed his order, in case it wasn’t just another way Saxon was trying to get under his skin.

 

* * *

 

It’s past midnight by the time Saxon returns. Fenn’s awake, after catching a few hours of sleep before his body jolted him back to consciousness and refused to let him rest anymore. He’s sitting on the edge of his bed looking over a datapad when his door opens to an annoyed looking Saxon, parts of his armor singed black. Fenn jumps to his feet, reasonably startled; Saxon shouldn’t have had this kind of access in the Protectors camp, much less to his quarters specifically. He must have been telling the truth when he said one of the Protectors had asked for his help, and whoever it was must have given him security codes too. Saxon steps out of the doorway, and the room suddenly feels much smaller when the door shuts behind him. Regardless, this is Fenn’s turf, even if he can’t actually do much against Saxon, and he squares his shoulders.

“Your rebel hunt was a wild gundark chase I take it?” Fenn snarks. Saxon’s eyes narrow and he sneers for a moment, then his expression shifts to a predatory grin.

“They may have gotten away, but today wasn’t a complete loss,” he replies, coming closer until he’s crowding Fenn against the edge of his bed. He’s expecting Saxon to push him to his knees and pull out his cock, twist a hand in Fenn’s hair while he fucks his mouth. But he just wraps a hand over the back of Fenn’s neck, squeezing briefly before he lets go and takes a step back.

“Strip,” Saxon orders, tugging off his gauntlets lazily as he watches with hungry eyes. Fenn has half a mind to protest, but he doesn’t, just glares as he opens the clasp at his neck and unzips his suit, refusing to rush for Saxon’s benefit. He’s in the simple jumpsuit that he always sleeps in, a thick pair of socks instead of boots, and he wishes now that he’d changed into something with a few more layers after he’d given up on falling back asleep.

“What, couldn’t find anyone else to get your kad wet while I was gone?” Fenn says once he’s gotten the upper body of his suit pushed down to his waist, partly to stall for a little more time and partly to vent some of his frustration by needling Saxon. It doesn’t have the intended effect though; the bastard only smirks, tossing his gloves and helmet onto Fenn’s nearby desk and crowding him again.

“Careful Rau, you almost sound jealous,” he says, leaning into Fenn’s space before shoving him back onto the bed. “Now hurry up and quit stalling.” When he doesn’t get to it quickly enough for his liking, Saxon grabs the fabric bunched around his hips and yanks the suit the rest of the way down his legs, taking his underwear with it. Fenn growls in annoyance, kicking off the tangled mess it made around his ankles so he can move freely again. He catches the bottle Saxon digs out of a pouch on his belt and tosses at him, wincing when it bounces off the bruise on his chest from his “rescue” earlier.

“Hands and knees,” Saxon says, removing his belt and codpiece, “And get yourself ready, unless you want me going in dry.” Fenn wants to tell him he can go fuck _himself_ dry, the traitorous piece of osik. He’s in the perfect position to slam his heel into Saxon’s now unprotected crotch, and the idea is very tempting, even in spite of the fact that Fenn knows he both can’t and won’t. So he scowls, turning over and getting up on his knees, briefly examining the bottle. It’s actual lube, not the cheap kind either, and Fenn’s thankful for that even if it means Saxon’s been planning on fucking him, rather than just idly considering it. He can hear the man moving around behind him, probably getting impatient.

Before Saxon can decide he’s wasting time again, Fenn slicks up the first couple fingers on one hand, reaching back as he leans forward to prop himself up with an elbow. He can practically feel Saxon’s eyes on him, and does his best to ignore it as he grits his teeth and slips a finger in. There’s only so much he can rush through, even determined as he is to get this over and done with. Fenn can’t help but jump when Saxon’s hands grab his ass, pulling his cheeks apart and rubbing a thumb through the extra slick around his hole.

“That’s right, get yourself nice and wet for me,” Saxon purrs, giving his ass another squeeze, then his hands are gone.

“Shut up,” Fenn huffs, with as much bite as he can manage when he’s trying to fit a second finger into his ass sooner than he should. Much as he hated it, Saxon’s cock was _big_ , which on almost anyone else would have been attractive; whatever his feelings on it, Fenn would need to stretch himself out with more than just one finger to be able to take it. His cock gives an interested twitch at the thought, but Fenn ignores it, focusing instead on trying to relax. He pulls his fingers out, reaching for the bottle so he can add more lube, but it isn’t where he’d dropped it. He’s just turning to look for it when Saxon grabs his hip, pushing a pair of wet fingers into him without warning.

“Nnng!” Fenn bites back something louder, wincing at the sudden stretch. Saxon’s fingers are thicker than his, and he isn’t taking his time to let Fenn adjust before he starts moving, rubbing the pads of his fingers inside him.

“Kriff, you’re tight,” Saxon groans, his hand firm on Fenn’s hip, stopping him from pulling away. He turns his wrist, adding another finger before sinking all three to the knuckle, rubbing so much deeper than Fenn could reach himself. He shudders when they find his prostate, hunching his shoulders and biting his lip to keep quiet. Saxon doesn’t let up, just keeps massaging the tips of his fingers into the same spot over and over and over again. Fenn’s torn between the heady thrum of pleasure and the knowledge that it’s Gar Saxon who’s causing it.

He gasps when it suddenly stops and the fingers are gone, leaving him achingly empty. Saxon’s moving behind him again, and when Fenn looks he’s stripping off his undersuit, his armor a careless pile on the floor. Once he’s finally naked he pauses, eyes roving over Fenn while he slowly fists his cock.

“What’s wrong Saxon, getting cold feet?” Fenn mocks, hands fisting in the sheets as he braces himself for what he knows is coming next. Saxon chuckles and gives his cock one more slow stroke, then he’s kneeling between Fenn’s spread legs, hard length nudging his ass as he leans over him.

“If only your men could see you now, so eager to take my kad,” he growls into Fenn’s ear, the words rumbling against his back where Saxon’s body is pressed against him.

“Fuck you!” Fenn snarls, the words morphing into a pained hiss when Saxon sinks his teeth into the meat of his shoulder. It’s a small relief when he lets go, but then Fenn’s vision spins when he’s grabbed by the hips and unceremoniously flipped over. Saxon looms over him, somehow still settled between his legs, and he’s paused again, thumbing the head of his cock as he runs his eyes down Fenn’s front. It leaves him with a dirty feeling, which only intensifies when that gaze reaches his erection and an infuriating smirk curls Saxon’s mouth.

“See?” he says, rubbing himself teasingly over Fenn’s hole, grin widening when Fenn grimaces at the traitorous twitch his own cock gives in response. “I’m flattered, really.”

“Shut up and get on with it,” Fenn grits out, laying back and resolutely staring at the ceiling, his hands fisting in the sheets again. He lets Saxon grab one of his legs and hook it over his shoulder, but at this point he refuses to do anything to make it easier for the bastard. Then Saxon plants a hand by his head and leans forward, nearly bending him in half, and presses his cock into him with a low, drawn out moan. The stretch is uncomfortable, even after taking three of Saxon’s fingers, but at least it isn't outright painful. Fenn squeezes his eyes shut and tries to relax, taking deep, even breaths through his nose. After a torturously long slide Saxon’s as deep in him as he can get, his hips flush with Fenn’s ass.

“ _Fierfek_ ,” Saxon groans above him, breath ghosting across Fenn’s face as he pulls out a few inches and rocks back in. He does it again, grabbing Fenn’s other leg and hiking it up to wrap around his waist, holding it there with fingers digging into his thigh. Then he snaps his hips forward on the next thrust, and Fenn lets out a startled moan as Saxon slams into him at just the right angle. His cock springs back to attention against his belly, and Fenn can’t help but writhe when Saxon grinds into him.

“You like that?” He rumbles, flushed face uncomfortably close when Fenn opens his eyes. He starts to snarl an insult, but before he can Saxon slams into him again, and Fenn has to slap a hand over his mouth to muffle the sound he makes.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Saxon purrs, then starts rolling his hips in short, deep strokes. It’s equal parts satisfying and frustrating; from this angle, Saxon’s cock rubs right over a spot that makes Fenn arch helplessly, but it’s not fast or hard enough to provide any actual relief. Above him, Saxon’s grunting lowly, watching his cock disappear into Fenn’s body with dark eyes. Fenn makes the mistake of following his gaze, and he’s dazed by the thrill of arousal that shoots through him at the sight of that big cock sinking into him, forgetting for a moment just who it belongs to. It really is unfortunate, he thinks, that such a nice cock is attached to Gar Saxon of all people. When Saxon glances up and sees the look on Fenn’s face, the grin he gives him is filthy.

“You really are enjoying this, aren’t you?” Saxon says, and that’s enough to snap Fenn out of it.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he pants, but the words don’t come out with half as much bite as he intends. Saxon sits back on his heels and pulls out, and Fenn actually whines at the empty feeling it brings, his face burning the moment the sound leaves him.

“No need to play coy,” Saxon says, slipping Fenn’s leg off his shoulder, his voice rough as he takes Fenn’s pillow and stuffs it under his hips. “I only wish I’d known what a little slut you were sooner.”

Somehow that, of all the things he’s had to deal with from Saxon today, is the final straw; Fenn snarls wordlessly, wrapping his legs around Saxon’s waist and using that to leverage himself up so he can slam his fist into his jaw. Saxon’s head snaps to the side and he leans back, and then he growls at Fenn and lunges. They struggle until he gets ahold of Fenn’s wrists, slamming him down onto the mattress and pinning them on either side of his head.

“Nice to see you’ve still got some fight in you,” Saxon pants, licking away the blood from the split lip Fenn had given him.

“Fuck off,” Fenn hisses, cursing the fact that he’s so much more out of breath than Saxon is. Months of being confined to a rebel cell had certainly taken a toll, but he knew that even if he’d never been captured it wouldn’t have changed much – Saxon is still bigger and stronger than him, even when Fenn’s at his best.

“What, and leave before I’ve gotten to fuck you properly?” Saxon taunts, leaning down until he’s right in his face, forearms pinning his and boxing him in. “I don’t think so.” They hadn’t actually moved very much during the scuffle, and the pillow is still wedged under Fenn’s hips, angling his ass up invitingly. It makes it easy for Saxon to push his cock back into him, without the trouble of even needing to free a hand.

Fenn bites his lip, failing to stifle a groan as Saxon starts moving, pulling out almost entirely before slamming back in. He tugs fruitlessly at his captured arms as Saxon fucks him, turns his head to the side and closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to see Saxon’s face, his features slack with pleasure. Fenn can’t ignore the grunting and moaning right in his ear though, or when Saxon starts mouthing and biting his neck. All of it together is enough to send his pulse racing, and he can’t suppress a moan, voice jumping when Saxon thrusts into him particularly roughly.

“That’s right, take it,” Saxon groans, slowing down so he can put that same force behind every roll of his hips. Every stroke is angled perfectly, leaving Fenn gasping for breath, the muscles in his thighs shaking from the strain where they’re still locked around Saxon’s waist. The only thing worse than him having such a nice cock is the fact that Saxon clearly knows exactly how to use it. Fenn can’t stop himself from arching up to meet each thrust, desperate for just a little more stimulation, his own neglected cock so hard that it’s almost painful. He can hear himself panting, a sharp cry leaving him every time Saxon bottoms out.

“ _Ah,_ ” Fenn gasps, ears burning as Saxon stops and grinds into him with a loud moan.

“Kriff, knew you’d be good at taking my kad,” he pants, licks the sweat from Fenn’s pulsepoint, sucks and bites the skin there until he’s left an angry red mark, “Like you were kriffin’ _made_ for it.”

“S-Shut up,” Fenn manages to grit out, glaring weakly up at Saxon’s satisfied face. He doesn’t know if he’d prefer sex with Saxon to be rough and uncomfortable, the other man only focused on his own pleasure, but it’s what he’d expected. Not for the bastard to be seemingly hellbent on making him enjoy it.

Fenn tries to pull his arms free again, and he’s shocked when Saxon lets him, releasing his hold on Fenn’s wrists and shifting his forearms further apart so he’s no longer pinned. He lays there for a moment, confused, but then Saxon starts moving, fucking him hard and fast, and Fenn’s scrambling for a hold on his shoulders without even thinking about it, clinging for some kind of stability. The way Saxon’s cock is pounding into him is overwhelming, and at this point it’s all Fenn can do just to hold on. Keeping himself from making any noise has already proved to be a lost cause, so he stops trying entirely, and it just seems to be keying Saxon up even more.

“Mmm, _good boy_ ,” Saxon moans over the wet slap of skin on skin, brow furrowed in concentration. Fenn’s barely paying attention at this point though – he’s so, _so_ close now, teetering right on the edge, squirming helplessly to try and get some friction against his cock. Then Saxon tangles a hand in his hair, holding him in place while he leans in to press a biting kiss to his open mouth. Fenn can’t help but whimper and wrap his arms around Saxon’s neck when the movement brings their chests together and rubs the head of his cock across the other man’s stomach. He can feel Saxon grin against his mouth as he licks into him, then bites Fenn’s lower lip and tugs.

“You gonna cum for me Rau?” he growls, just as out of breath as Fenn is. “Go on, cum on my cock.”

“ _F-Fuck y–,_ ” Fenn pants, cutting himself off with a whine when Saxon slips his other hand under his lower back, pushing their stomachs together so Fenn’s cock slides deliciously between them. Saxon doesn’t stop fucking him when he shouts, spine arching as he cums hard all over their stomachs with a full body shudder. For a long blissful moment Fenn doesn’t care about anything except the fact that Saxon’s cock is still pumping into him, drawing out his orgasm even as his hips stutter.

“Fuck, _yeah,_ just like that,” Saxon groans lowly, mouthing at Fenn’s jaw and panting, “Gonna fill you up with my cum–!” He trails off, slamming into Fenn’s ass a few more times before he moans loudly. Fenn can feel the pulse of Saxon’s cock inside him as he cums, and he shudders again as liquid heat fills him. His own cock gives one last valiant twitch as Saxon rocks his hips, riding out his orgasm with slow thrusts until he’s soft, then pulls out.

Fenn’s bones feel like jelly, and when Saxon pulls away his arms and legs slide from him limply, falling splayed around Fenn on the bed. Saxon sits back on his heels, his face sweaty and flushed but sickeningly satisfied. He lifts one of Fenn’s thighs, and his face burns when he can feel Saxon’s cum slowly leaking out of him.

“Good job, Rau,” Saxon breathes, palming Fenn’s ass and using a thumb to push the cum back into his hole, his gaze a weight Fenn can feel roving up and down his body. The part of him that spurred him to punch Saxon earlier demands that he do it again, but Fenn’s so exhausted he barely has the energy to throw an arm over his eyes, still catching his breath while his heart hammers in his chest. In spite of the roiling in his stomach from his injured pride, it’s a pleasant kind of exhaustion, the buzz of endorphins still running through him from being thoroughly fucked.

The best Fenn can manage as a response is a breathy groan, and Saxon chuckles, his hands leaving Fenn’s skin. The bed dips, and Fenn doesn’t need to look to work out that Saxon’s headed to the ‘fresher, his footsteps heavy as he crosses the room. Water runs briefly, and in the few minutes Saxon is gone, Fenn’s gotten enough energy back to gingerly sit up. He winces as he does, hissing lowly at the twinge in his ass and lower back; even with adequate prep, Saxon was much bigger than Fenn had taken in a long while, and he hadn’t exactly been gentle about it either.

Saxon leaves the fresher, carelessly tossing a damp hand towel in Fenn’s general direction before he starts dressing. His reflexes haven’t quite recovered yet and it bounces off his arm before he can grab it. Saxon’s silent as he pulls on his undersuit, and Fenn just glares as he wipes his own fluids off his chest and stomach; he’s going to take a long hot shower to deal with the lube and cum inside him once Saxon’s left. Maybe he’ll even be able to get rid of the feeling of Saxon fucking him, though that’s probably a bit too optimistic.

“I think I’ll be keeping a closer eye on the Protectors in the future,” Saxon says as he’s attaching the last of his armor, “I wouldn’t want there to be any more unreported rebel incidents, after all.” Fenn scowls at that, and if he wasn’t so tired he might argue. He still has enough energy to try and get the last word in though.

“What, and let all my men know that you’re only showing up to fuck me?” Fenn sneers, pulling from a months-old memory, “There’ll be nothing stopping me from putting a blasterbolt between your eyes if they pick a new Chief Protector.” Saxon’s eyes narrow at that last remark, but then he grins smugly.

“Didn’t I mention? That’s why your man came to me – seems some of them have been keeping track of our little one-on-ones,” Saxon says, picking up his gloves and helmet, “They already think I’ve been fucking you.” Fenn swears his heart stops for a few seconds, and he stares wide-eyed at Saxon as the man turns to leave, a cold pit in his stomach.

“I’ll be seeing you soon, _Fenn_ ,” Saxon calls over his shoulder as he palms the door controls, sounding incredibly pleased with himself. Then the door shuts behind him and he’s gone, leaving Fenn alone with his thoughts. His hands are clenched so tightly around the towel in his lap that his knuckles have gone white, and the joints creak in protest when he finally has the presence of mind to relax them, just one more ache to add to the list.

It isn’t until he’s in the shower, mechanically going through the process of cleaning himself up, that the shock passes and the entirety of what happened and what he’s learned hits him. The anger-shame-terror nearly bowls him over and leaves Fenn shaking, and he turns the water as hot as he can stand it before he washes himself all over again, nearly rubbing the skin raw with the force he uses. He only gets out when the water starts to run cold, and he immediately wraps himself in the biggest towel he has.

He’s still shaking when he’s done dressing, and it only takes one look at the mussed sheets of his bed for him rip them all off, kicking them aside with his clothes from earlier. They end up in the far corner of the room, his pillow topping the pile soon after. At least the thick blanket folded at the foot of the bed is salvageable, Fenn thinks, and he curls up under it, leaning against the headboard. He finds the datapad he’d been reading earlier, and with clumsy fingers he powers it back on. When the sun rises a few hours later, he’s still staring at the same page, mentally dissecting every interaction he’s had with his men since agreeing to Saxon’s deal.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: I’m gonna figure out some kind of plot before I write any more  
> also me: *writes more porn anyway*
> 
> this is going somewhere, I’m just not entirely sure where yet :V

“Good boy,” Saxon breathes into Fenn’s ear, chest pressed tight against his back. One hand is wrapped around Fenn’s cock, the other toys with a nipple, and Fenn is torn between bucking into his grip and squirming mindlessly. Saxon languidly strokes him and Fenn moans, his head falling back onto Saxon’s shoulder, pleasure buzzing under his skin. 

“That’s right, just like that,” Saxon murmurs, rubbing a thumb over the head of Fenn’s cock, pressing a wet kiss right below his ear. Fenn feels like he’s been hard for hours, the slide of Saxon’s palm over him eased by the copious amount of precum he’s leaking. 

“Saxon,” Fenn groans when the man twists his nipple, turning his head to catch Saxon’s mouth in a deep kiss, and the hand on his cock starts pumping faster. Everything feels heavy and sluggish, save for the pounding of his pulse in his ears and the heat pooled low in his belly. He tries to thrust up into Saxon’s grip, but it feels like he’s moving through molasses, arms and legs refusing to cooperate. Fenn can only let his legs fall open even further, moaning against Saxon’s mouth as his tongue tangles with Fenn’s. The muscles in his stomach tense, and Fenn breaks the kiss to gasp for breath, Saxon mouthing along the exposed line of his neck when he throws his head back and –

Fenn jolts awake, breathing heavy and staring into the darkness of his room. For a moment his mind teeters on the cusp between waking and sleeping, where the only thing he’s truly aware of is that he’s achingly hard. It takes a minute for the fog of sleep to clear, and when it does Fenn growls to himself, burying his face in his pillow. 

This is the fifth time in the last two weeks that he’s had a vividly explicit dream about Gar _kriffing_ Saxon, and the fifth time he’s woken up right on the edge of release. He hasn’t seen Saxon since that first night back in the Protectors camp, and after nearly a month of silence Fenn was starting to get antsy. He hadn’t expected to get more than a couple weeks free of the man’s presence, but instead of being a welcome reprieve the extra time only makes him irritable, always expecting Saxon to show up at the most inopportune time.

Fenn’s cock throbs, demanding attention, and it pulls him out of his thoughts. Every time, Fenn has done his best to ignore it and will his erection away, and every time it has persisted in spite of his efforts. Now is no different, the dream still fresh in his mind, and Fenn shivers at the phantom sensation of dream-Saxon’s hands on him. The fact that he isn’t free from the bastard even in his sleep lights an angry fire in Fenn’s stomach, but the feeling is twisted through with shame at just how turned on he always is when he wakes up. He tells himself that this time he’s not going to do anything, he’ll just lay here until it passes and he can go about the rest of his day normally. It would be much easier if the dream didn’t keep running on repeat through his mind, every remembered touch eliciting the same reaction now as it had when he’d been asleep.

Fenn gives in sooner than he’d ever admit, rolling onto his back as he kicks off his sheets, fumbling with the zipper on his suit until he gets a hold of it and pulls it all the way open. He can’t hold back a moan when he wraps a hand around his cock, gently squeezing it the way Saxon had in his dream, his face hot with angry shame. He’d been so close before he’d woken up, just about to spill over Saxon’s fingers, but now his orgasm feels frustratingly out of reach. Fenn swallows his pride and focuses on the dream, stroking himself at the same lazy pace that Saxon had set. He can still remember every detail; warm breath in his ear, a solid weight against his back, Saxon’s voice, low and rough, rumbling encouragement as his hands worked Fenn over. He slides a hand up to his chest, carefully tugging and rolling one of his nipples between his fingers, and his breath hitches. Then he massages a thumb over the head of his cock, gathering the wetness there and spreading it over his palm as he lets out a shuddering moan.

Fenn pumps his cock faster, the wet sound of it filling the room, and he can feel the flush on his face spreading to his chest and ears. He pinches his nipple, writhing against his sheets, the plot of the dream slipping away as blood rushes in his ears. It’s replaced by the memory of his legs wrapped around Saxon’s waist, his big cock pushing inside and stretching him open, filling him up, and his hips give an aborted jerk. Then that slips away too, Fenn’s mind grasping for something to tip him that last bit over the edge. Saxon’s fingers opening him up and massaging little circles inside him, Saxon pinning him against his fighter and rutting into the tight space between Fenn’s thighs, Saxon pushing him to his knees and guiding Fenn’s mouth over his cock. All of it sends hot licks of arousal through him, but it still isn’t enough. 

Then the image of Saxon on his knees appears in Fenn’s mind; mouth open and panting, his face flushed and hair a disheveled mess, armor gone and undersuit pushed down so Fenn can see his hard cock hanging heavy between his legs. Fenn’s hand stutters as heat shoots through him, the part of his mind that’s focused solely on cumming as quickly as possible barreling forward with this new material before he can think better of it. 

Fenn imagines grabbing Saxon by the hair, pulling him forward and pushing his cock between pliant lips. Pictures Saxon sucking eagerly as Fenn rocks back and forth, moaning loudly as Fenn slowly fucks his mouth, hand between his legs and furiously working over his own cock. He imagines Saxon with his mouth opened wide, his hot breath panting over the wet head of Fenn’s cock where it’s pillowed on his tongue, his posture loose and submissive as Fenn holds him in place, one hand in Saxon’s hair while he uses the other to stroke himself to completion. Pictures how half of his cum would fill Saxon’s waiting mouth, pooling obscenely on the flat of his tongue, how the rest would shoot up over his cheeks, the bridge of his nose, even his forehead as Fenn pushed his head back. Imagines Saxon lapping up the last bit of cum clinging to Fenn’s cock once he’s finished, pressing a wet kiss to the tip before swallowing everything in his mouth with a low moan, still pumping a hand over his own cock with a rhythmic wet slap, and Fenn throbs as he bites his lip, choking out a whine. The image of Saxon’s face is vivid in Fenn’s mind; a mess of saliva and thick streaks of cum, brows pitched up in an almost pained expression as he cries out and spills over his own hand. Then his eyes, dark and hooded as he looks up at Fenn through his eyelashes, breathing heavy, lips swollen and red, composure wrecked and looking like the end result of a cheap holoporn. 

It’s the last nudge Fenn needs, and his hips lift off the bed as he arches, hand flying over his cock as he keens and cums all over his stomach and chest, pumping himself through it until he’s completely wrung out. He collapses against the bed and lies there panting, sweat and cum rapidly cooling on his skin, and as the immediate bliss of orgasm fades, the shame slowly creeps back in. Just like every time before, Fenn scowls and resolutely pushes what just happened out of his mind, determined not to think about it again. He rises and walks on unsteady legs to the fresher, washing away the physical evidence, in the hopes that it will help. It hasn’t before, but he’s not going to walk around all day with the uncomfortable reminder of these mornings plastered to his skin, so it’s a start.

 

* * *

 

A full month since he’d learned one of his men had gone to Saxon for help, and Fenn is still no closer to figuring out who it was. If it wasn’t for the fact that Saxon had shown up in his quarters with no warning, Fenn would have felt safe saying that he was lying, and put the thought out of mind as just another way the man was trying to throw him off balance. It turned his stomach to think that Saxon was telling the truth, that his men knew that nearly every “important meeting” had been a thinly veiled excuse for Saxon to get him alone and make use of his mouth. Not that there was any indication they knew – Fenn’s men didn’t act any differently now than they had before he and Saxon made their deal, and obviously no one had brought it up with him directly. No overheard snippets of conversation, no offhand comments, no jokes or gossip, or at least none that he’d been able to catch. Fenn knew his Protectors were the best of the best, but they were still only men, and this kind of bombshell would have dominated most conversation for a good while. A part of him hoped this was proof Saxon was lying to get a rise out of him, but he wasn’t that optimistic.

Aside from all of that, things had gone back to normal, or at least some relative degree of it. The Protectors had run surprisingly smoothly in his absence, and Fenn slipped back into the familiar role of Chief Protector without a hitch. He’s still readjusting to not being locked in a cell for the majority of his day, but there’s nothing for that but more time. So Fenn takes every opportunity he can to keep himself busy and outside, which is how he winds up elbows deep in the engine compartment of his recently rebuilt fighter. There’d been a persistent, low rattling hum since Jarrus had cut open the cockpit and knocked him out, leaving it to crash in what was thankfully mostly one piece. Every mechanic in camp has made an attempt to find the source of the noise and fix it, but so far all of them had failed, and after a full patrol spent listening to the repetitive sound Fenn is determined to be rid of it once and for all. 

He spends a good three hours going over it, systematically tightening every loose screw and fitting, replacing parts with too much wear whenever he finds them. By the time he’s finished Fenn’s hands are a mess of grease and oil, and he’s uncomfortably sweaty from the heat of the afternoon sun beating down on his back. There’s no way to tell if the sound is gone without a test flight, and he’s in no mood to track any of this into the cockpit, so Fenn delegates the task to one of his men and leaves to get cleaned up. 

Even with the top half of his suit stripped down and tied loosely around his waist, the heat of the day persists, and his undershirt sticks to his skin uncomfortably on the walk to his quarters, adding to his discomfort. Once his door closes behind him, Fenn wipes off as much of the mess on his hands as he can before undressing, tossing his clothes and the towel he’d used in a pile next to his laundry hamper to be dealt with later. A shiver goes up his back as he steps onto the cool tile of the ‘fresher floor, skin prickling as a gust of air blows over him. When Fenn turns on the shower and finally steps under the warm spray, his shoulders sag in a contented sigh, tension leaching out of him as he rests his forehead on the wall and lets the water beat down on his back. It isn’t often that he’s able to take his time, usually just rushing through getting clean so he could move on to other, more pressing tasks. Right now there wasn’t anything waiting to be dealt with, no time sensitive issue that required his attention, and he was going to savor it. 

Fenn washes his hair first, gently massaging his fingers over his scalp, and his mind drifts back to his dream from that morning at the pleasant tingle it sends through him. He frowns, pushing the thought away as soon as he’s aware of it, but not soon enough to stop his cock from perking up in interest. Fenn ignores his half-hard erection, scrubbing his hair with a bit more force before putting his head under the spray, eyes squeezed shut while he rinses out the shampoo. He refuses to think about the persistent dreams, or his own lack of self control upon waking from them, unless he absolutely has to. Fenn lathers his hands up, rubbing them over his face and neck as he very pointedly doesn’t consider reaching down and jerking himself off to the memory of Saxon’s hands on him. He’s just finished washing the soap from his face, and is in the process of wiping the water out of his eyes when he hears the ‘fresher door open behind him and he nearly jumps out of his skin.

“Easy there, Rau,” Saxon says from the doorway, “It’s only me.” The statement isn’t at all reassuring, not that he thinks Saxon meant it to be. Fenn glares at the other man where he’s leaning casually in the doorway, resisting the urge to cover himself. It’s not like Saxon hasn’t seen it already, and Fenn isn’t about to show any sign of weakness if he can help it. 

“Do you mind?” Fenn hisses, narrowing his eyes, and Saxon smirk widens.

“Not at all,” he says, giving Fenn’s naked body a slow, blatant up and down. Fenn feels his face heat up, hopes that it’s hidden in the flush he already has from the hot water, and growls to himself in frustration. It’s clear Saxon has no intention of listening to him, so Fenn turns his back and does his best to ignore him. He hears movement as he angrily lathers his hands up and runs them over his arms, even relaxing slightly when the distinct sound of the door sliding shut reaches him over the spray of the water. He moves on to his chest and shoulders, adding more soap to his hands, sure that Saxon’s gone to wait in his quarters. Fenn almost drops the bar when the shower door opens right behind him, flinching at the rush of much cooler air over his wet skin. He half turns, and has to lean away and crane his neck up at how close Saxon is, stumbling back a step to make room as the now naked man crowds him. 

“What the kriff do you think you’re doing Saxon?” Fenn demands, shoulders rising defensively of their own accord.

“I said I’d be keeping a closer eye on you,” Saxon says, closing the door behind him and blocking Fenn’s only escape route, “Or did you already forget?” He grabs Fenn by the hips, roughly turning and pulling him until Fenn’s back is pressed to his chest. His cock is already hard where it presses against Fenn’s tailbone, hot and heavy on his skin.

“I don’t think you needed to interrupt my shower to do that,” Fenn hisses, and Saxon’s hands leave his hips to take the bar of soap from him.

“Oh, but I did,” Saxon says, lathering his hands up before setting the bar on the shelf built into the wall, “How else am I supposed to do this?” Saxon presses his hands to Fenn’s stomach, sliding them slowly up to his chest. He rubs his palms up over Fenn’s nipples, then back down to his hips, repeating the motion and spreading the soap over his skin in a continuous, smooth slide. It’s too close to the dream he’d had for Fenn’s cock to ignore, and he’s half hard again after barely any time at all. He squirms as Saxon grinds against his ass, hands stopping at his chest so he can roll both nipples under his thumbs until they’re stiff and oversensitive. Just when Fenn’s sure he can’t take anymore, Saxon stops, and he has to lean back against Saxon’s chest to keep his legs from giving out, breathing quick and shallow. 

“Miss me, Rau?” Saxon purrs into his ear, hands skating down his sides, and Fenn bites his lip when Saxon gropes him, soap-slick hands pressing his still-hardening cock to his stomach and cupping his balls.

“Like I’d miss a flesh-eating virus,” Fenn grits out, voice strained. He grips Saxon’s forearms and tries to push him away, but his own hands are still soapy, and they just slide uselessly over the other man’s skin. He sucks in a sharp breath when Saxon starts petting the underside of his cock, gently rolling Fenn’s balls in his other hand, until he’s completely hard, dripping soap suds and precum.

“So proud,” Saxon chuckles, pressing him firmly against the wall before his weight disappears from Fenn’s back, “Where was all this last time, when you were moaning on my cock?” He slides firm hands from Fenn’s shoulders down either side of his spine, and he can’t bite back a low groan when they pass over knots and Saxon actually takes the time to knead them out. Too soon he’s finished, moving on to squeeze handfuls of Fenn’s ass. 

“Shut up,” is the best Fenn can manage, his cheeks burning. He feels loose and pliant, resting his forehead on the shower wall as Saxon rubs slick fingers over his hole. He takes his time soaping Fenn up, never actually pushing his fingers inside, only dragging them teasingly over sensitive skin. Fenn only realizes he’s been arching into the touch when Saxon stops and pulls him under the spray of water.

“I could tell how much you loved it,” Saxon growls as he runs his hands over Fenn’s body, rinsing away the soap, “Could feel your tight little ass sucking me in as I fucked you.” Fenn growls back and tries to jab an elbow into his ribs, but Saxon just grabs him by the hips again and pulls him out of the water, shoving him back to the wall he was leaning on before. 

“Hands to the wall,” Saxon orders, kicking his legs apart, and Fenn grudgingly does as he says. He’s a bit concerned that Saxon’s going to fuck him again, without any lube or prep this time, especially when the hands on his hips vanish and he hears Saxon moving around behind him. Then Saxon’s hands are back, spreading his cheeks, and Fenn jolts as a hot tongue licks over his hole. He can feel Saxon’s grin against his ass, before the tip of his tongue is circling his rim.

“ _Ahh!_ ” Fenn pants, fingers clenching against the tile as Saxon starts eating him out, the flat of his tongue swiping over Fenn’s perineum and hole in slow, broad strokes. He stops to lick a wet stripe over Fenn’s balls, pressing a sucking, open-mouthed kiss to them that has Fenn reaching back to tangle a hand in Saxon’s hair with a sharp moan. There’s a warning scrape of teeth over the curve of his ass and Fenn shudders, his cock twitching. 

“Careful Rau,” Saxon growls, dragging his rough stubble over the delicate skin between Fenn’s cheeks, “I didn’t give you permission to touch me.” Fenn actually whimpers at the friction on such a sensitive place, biting his lip at the heady mixture of pleasure and pain as Saxon licks over the same spot a few times, his hand still buried in Saxon’s hair. Between the heat of the shower and the amount of blood that’s rushed to his cock, Fenn’s head is spinning, the cool tile against his forehead the only thing keeping him grounded. He doesn’t even think to take his hand out of Saxon’s hair, can only keep holding on as Saxon pulls his cheeks further apart and probes at the muscles of his hole with the tip of his tongue. Fenn rocks up onto the balls of his feet, his body unsure of whether it wants to escape the feeling or lean into it, and Saxon follows him, swirling his tongue around Fenn’s rim, using his grip on Fenn’s ass to hold him still. 

Fenn’s face burns impossibly hotter at the wet slurping sounds Saxon makes as he licks and sucks at his hole, squirming against his face every time the tip of his tongue pushes in and opens Fenn up a little more. When he’s loose enough Saxon starts tongue fucking him, and the only things holding Fenn upright are the shower wall he’s braced against and Saxon’s hands on his ass. 

“Oh, _fuck,_ ” Fenn moans, the breathy words punched out of him by the wet heat thrusting inside him. He doesn’t know how long Saxon keeps him like that, pulling soft groans of pleasure from him with nothing but his lips and tongue, but his breath hitches on a whine when he finally stops, mouth separating from Fenn’s ass with an obscene pop. 

Saxon takes him by the hips and stands, dislodging Fenn’s hand from his hair and turning him around so abruptly his head spins. He grabs Fenn’s jaw, holds him still while he just looks at him for a moment, then leans down and presses their mouths together with a growl. Fenn can taste the combination of soap residue and his own sweat, and Saxon pins him bodily when he tries to pull away, shoving his tongue into Fenn’s mouth and licking all the way to his back teeth. He struggles against Saxon’s grip at first, tugging fruitlessly at the hand on his jaw and pushing at Saxon’s chest when that doesn’t work. Fenn winces as the hand tightens, only loosening again once he stops struggling and lets Saxon lick his own taste into his mouth. Saxon angles his head a little more to one side, lips pressing against Fenn’s as their tongues slide wetly over each other, Saxon’s insistent as it traces the roof of Fenn’s mouth, the underside of his tongue, the backs of his teeth. The way Saxon’s saliva is pooling in his mouth is absolutely filthy, and Fenn’s cock throbs as he’s forced to swallow it so he can keep breathing, and he’s made to suck on Saxon’s tongue in the process. Fenn pulls in a gasping breath when the kiss finally ends, narrowing his eyes at Saxon when he shifts his grip and tilts Fenn’s face up with a thumb on his chin.

“I see you’ve been enjoying yourself,” he says, taking in Fenn’s flushed face and obvious erection as he licks his lips, “But now I think it’s time you returned the favor.” Saxon lets go of his chin, pushing down on Fenn’s shoulders until he’s forced to kneel, and Fenn winces at the impact of his knees on the hard tile. It puts him face to face with Saxon’s cock, and a roll of his hips rubs the dripping head over Fenn’s cheek. He tries to lean away, but a firm hand on the back of his neck stops him before he can get too far, pulling him back in until the tip of Saxon’s cock is pushing against his lips. “Go on then,” he purrs.

Fenn glares up at him as he opens his mouth, wraps his lips around the head and sucks. Saxon’s breath catches, his eyes locked on Fenn’s face, and his cock twitches as it dribbles a spurt of precum onto Fenn’s tongue. Fenn opens his jaw wider, braces his hands on Saxon’s thighs as he slides his mouth down the shaft, stopping only when Saxon’s cock nudges the back of his throat. He swallows and takes a careful breath through his nose, closing his eyes and sucking as he draws back. Then he leans in, taking Saxon’s cock back into his mouth, pushing the flat of his tongue up against the underside as he does.

“That’s a good boy,” Saxon groans, petting the back of Fenn’s head when he does it again, slowly bobbing his head as he works up a rhythm. All Fenn can taste now is the salty, slightly bitter flavor of Saxon’s precum as it quickly fills his mouth, and the natural musk of his sweaty skin fills Fenn’s nose. He pulls back with a wet slurp, until the head of Saxon’s cock is resting on his bottom lip, pausing for a moment to catch his breath. Saxon gives him an unsubtle nudge on the back of the head, so Fenn licks away the bead of precum gathering at his slit, pressing a messy kiss to it to buy himself just a few more moments of respite. Then he’s taking Saxon’s cock back into his mouth, swirling his tongue over the head and eliciting an appreciative moan as he does. His jaw is already starting to ache from being held open so wide, and his shoulders are tense as he picks his rhythm back up, dreading the moment when Saxon will get bored of this and decide to shove his cock all the way down Fenn’s throat. He lets out a low grunt every time Fenn swallows him down, and when he looks Saxon is watching him intently, pupils huge and dark with arousal. He grins when he catches Fenn’s eyes, bringing his free hand up to run a finger through the mix of saliva and precum dripping down Fenn’s chin. 

“Look at you,” he rumbles, following the trail up to the corner of Fenn’s mouth, “Making such a mess of yourself.” Saxon doesn’t let Fenn pull back then, hand on the back of his head holding him still with his mouth full of cock so he can trace his finger along Fenn’s lips, stretched tight around his thick shaft. Fenn almost panics, but he forces himself to take slow, even breaths through his nose while he still can. Saxon’s cock throbs in his mouth, but instead of fucking into Fenn’s throat he pulls out entirely, a thick string of precum hanging between Saxon’s cockhead and Fenn’s open mouth. It snaps when Saxon grips the base of his cock and slaps the head against Fenn’s lower lip, falling to add to the mess on his chin. He squeezes his cock from base to tip, coaxing another spurt of precum from it, and he groans as he smears it over Fenn’s lips.

“Get up,” Saxon orders, suddenly urgent as he takes Fenn by the elbow and pulls. He stumbles to his feet and Saxon is immediately in his space, hoisting him up with hands under his thighs, forcing Fenn to wrap his arms and legs around him so he doesn’t fall. Saxon slides his hands up to cradle Fenn’s ass, then his cock is pressing against Fenn’s hole, and he hisses when Saxon pushes into him, Fenn’s spit just barely enough to ease the way. He lets his head fall back against the wall and clenches his jaw, letting out a shuddering breath when Saxon finally bottoms out. 

“ _Kriff,_ ” Saxon gasps, resting his forehead against the wall just over Fenn’s shoulder. He doesn’t move for a minute, breathing harshly against Fenn’s skin while his fingers squeeze hard enough to leave bruises. Then Saxon starts to move, rolling his hips in small thrusts that keep him as deep inside Fenn as possible, groaning at the tight friction. Somehow Fenn’s still hard, apparently not even the almost-pain of being fucked without proper lube enough to overtake the aching satisfaction of being filled so completely. It also helps that Saxon isn’t pounding into him, reckless in the pursuit of his own pleasure. The pace he sets instead is slow and precise, fucking into Fenn almost gently, and the drag of Saxon’s cock inside him makes Fenn’s toes curl. It even gets easier after a few minutes – Saxon leaks more precum than anyone Fenn’s ever seen, and now when he bottoms out it’s with a slick squelch that makes Fenn’s face burn from equal parts shame and arousal.

Now that the initial discomfort is gone, Fenn realizes he’s alarmingly close to cumming, his untouched cock sitting flushed and hard against his stomach. He shudders the next time Saxon sinks into him, has to curl forward and bury his face in the forearm he has around Saxon’s shoulders to muffle the sound that makes its way out of him. It smears the mess around his mouth and chin up his cheeks and over his arm, but he can’t focus enough right now to care. Saxon laughs breathlessly, turns his head and mouths his way up Fenn’s neck until he gets to his ear.

“Is it that good Rau?” he murmurs, voice noticeably strained, “You like it when I fuck you nice and slow?” He licks Fenn’s earlobe, gently closes his teeth over it and tugs, and Fenn’s cock jerks as he groans. “You like it when I fill you up with my big cock?” Saxon’s thrusts slow even more, each one ending with him grinding up into Fenn while he breathes loudly into his ear. Fenn wants to deny it, wants to shove Saxon away from him and punch the bastard out, then deliver a few sound kicks to his ribs while he’s down. All he can do is shake his head weakly and dig his nails into Saxon’s shoulders.

“No,” Fenn groans, entirely unconvincing as he shivers and bites back a moan immediately after. He hates that Saxon’s able to reduce him to this so easily. Hates knowing that if he weren’t a traitor and an Imperial lapdog, Saxon would be exactly his type. Hates that even knowing all the things that make him despise the man, there’s still a part of him that wants to ignore it all and just enjoy being fucked by him. Fenn shakes his head again, as if he can physically dispel that particular line of thought. It doesn’t change the fact that Saxon is fucking him, that he’s quickly becoming desperate for release, desperate enough that he might very well do anything Saxon asks of him to get it. 

“Fuck,” Saxon gasps, hips stuttering and slapping harder against Fenn’s ass, “Oh _fuck,_ yeah, Fenn–!” He cuts himself off and moans, the sound bouncing off the bathroom walls as he slams home deep inside Fenn, hips twitching and cock pulsing as he cums. Fenn groans at the wet heat that spreads through him, his hips rocking down to meet Saxon’s while he bites his lip. Kriff, he’s so close, if Saxon had only held out a little bit longer – maybe if he’s quick, he can angle his hips just right, before Saxon starts going soft–

But Saxon keeps cumming, open mouth panting into Fenn’s neck, hard cock still jerking and spilling inside him as he lets out a hoarse moan. It goes on longer than Fenn’s expecting, filling him up with so much more cum than Saxon had last time as the man grinds up into him and gasps for breath. Fenn feels lightheaded when he arches so that Saxon’s cock rubs inside him at the perfect angle, moaning and nearly cumming right then. Saxon’s hips twitch one more time, and he pulls out a few inches before he slams back into Fenn’s ass and goes still, his entire body shuddering as he finally stops cumming. The sudden burst of sensation is almost painful, and it’s what finally tips Fenn over the edge. 

Fenn gasps, arms and legs shaking as every muscle tenses, eyes watering at the force of the orgasm that rolls through him. His nails rake angry lines over the backs of Saxon’s shoulders, and Fenn only distantly hears him hiss in pain as he squeezes his eyes shut, mouth falling open soundlessly. They slide down the wall of the shower until Saxon is kneeling on the floor, cock still buried in Fenn’s ass and hands holding him close while they both pant. Fenn can’t convince his limbs to let him move yet, even as Saxon tiredly nuzzles his neck, stubble rasping across his skin, before he absently kisses Fenn’s jaw and strokes a hand over his hip. It feels too much like the aftermath of a lover’s rendezvous, especially after the way Saxon had fucked him, all deep, slow movements and burning intensity.

“Kriffin’ _hell_ , Rau,” Saxon mumbles, voice rough and dripping satisfaction, “Well done.” Fenn’s still clinging to his shoulders, little aftershocks of pleasure tingling through him. Saxon’s voice sounds distant and fuzzy past the gradually fading roar of blood in his ears, and as he slowly comes back to himself he can feel Saxon’s cock finally softening inside him. He slips his hands under Fenn’s ass, lifting him up just enough so that his cock slides out, grunting as he does. Then he settles Fenn back in his lap, reaches down to push two fingers into his hole with a wet squelch, and Fenn whimpers a high, broken sound, squirming weakly when they push deeper and Saxon’s cum drips out of him.

“ _Ah,_ ” Fenn whines, hips bucking up and away as they find his oversensitive prostate, and he realizes that his cock is still achingly hard.

“How’s it feel, Fenn?” Saxon asks, relentlessly rubbing the tips of his fingers inside him until he’s shaking again, reaching back with one hand hand to push weakly at Saxon’s arm. “Being filled up with my cum?” It's all too much too soon, and Fenn’s head spins as he shudders and cums again, but his cock is still hard and Saxon doesn’t let up.

“ _Please,_ ” Fenn gasps, doesn’t even know what he’s begging for at this point, only knows that Saxon has him pinned and at his mercy.

“This is a good look on you,” Saxon purrs,  dragging the tips of his fingers in a neat little circle, “Desperate, begging me. I wonder how long I could keep you like this?” Fenn whimpers at the prospect, shaking from overstimulation, and Saxon chuckles. “Go on then, ask me nicely.” Indignant anger roils in Fenn’s gut, but it’s drowned out by the desperate arousal coursing through him.

“P-Please,” he grits out after a few tries, the tight coil of shame in his belly leaving the words clipped. 

“Good boy,” Saxon growls, fingers pressing up harshly, and Fenn suddenly feels like he can’t get enough air into his lungs. “Now say my name.” For a small eternity Fenn can’t speak, can’t think, until Saxon sinks his teeth into the spot where his neck meets his shoulder and he flinches.

“Saxon!” Fenn hisses at the pain, even as his cock throbs approvingly. Saxon stops biting him, sucks the mark it left before his mouth is gone, and his other hand wraps loosely around Fenn’s cock.

“Mmm, try again,” he hums, his grip providing almost no friction as he gives Fenn a light, teasing stroke. Every instinct tells Fenn to roll his hips forward into Saxon’s hand, and he struggles to parse the meaning of what he’s said past the sudden headrush. 

“Gar,” Fenn tries instead, and he hates how needy he sounds. Then he shouts when the hand around his cock starts pumping him with quick, tight strokes.

“Yeah, just like that,” Saxon says, breath hot on Fenn’s neck, “Say it again.”

“Gar,” Fenn groans, his breath hitching as Saxon’s cock presses against the underside of his, still slick enough to easily slide in under Saxon’s thumb. He thrusts in counterpoint to the rhythm of his hand, and the combination is quickly eroding the last of Fenn’s resistance. “ _Gar!_ ”

“That’s right, kriffing scream it,” Saxon pants, his hand flying over their cocks, “Let everyone know how much you love this.” Fenn rests his cheek on Saxon’s shoulder, gasping soft, high sounds into his neck while he squirms in Saxon’s grip.

“ _Gar,_ ” he whines as he feels the muscles in his stomach tighten, tears springing to his eyes. His grip tightens on Saxon’s shoulder, his other hand still clinging to Saxon’s wrist as he shallowly thrusts his fingers. Fenn actually sobs when his cock finally throbs, painting long stripes over both their chests as tears roll down his cheeks, clenching around the fingers buried in his ass. Saxon jerks him through it, growling a few moments later when he cums too, cock pulsing hotly against Fenn’s as he adds to the mess between them, most of it dripping down over Fenn’s cock. Fenn goes limp once he’s finished, groaning weakly when Saxon pulls out his fingers to wrap both arms around his waist. 

“ _Fuck,_ ” is all Saxon says, soft and breathless as he leans forward, his weight pinning Fenn to the wall beneath him. Fenn feels exhausted and completely wrung out, every muscle sore after being wrapped around Saxon for so long, the lingering euphoria of his orgasm leaving his mind pleasantly blank. All he wants now is to curl up in his bed and sleep for a few hours, heedless of the mess of cum inside him and slowly running down his chest. He even starts to drift off, but Saxon moves, one arm still tight around him while the other clumsily untangles his legs from around Saxon’s waist. 

“Alright, Rau,” he says, dragging Fenn up with him as he stands, the arm around him supporting most of his weight. He’s careful as he maneuvers Fenn under the now luke-warm spray of water, touch surprisingly gentle when he grabs Fenn’s washcloth and starts cleaning the mess from his skin. Fenn’s too tired to protest as Saxon runs it over his chest and down his stomach, only flinching when it gets to his still sensitive cock, but it’s over quickly. He lets out an involuntary whimper when Saxon slips his fingers back inside him, cleaning out any cum that hasn’t already dripped out, but Saxon’s movements are quick and efficient and that’s soon finished as well. Saxon tosses the washcloth into the corner after he wipes off what the water hasn’t washed away from his own skin, then turns the shower off and looks Fenn over with an unreadable expression. Or maybe whatever he’s thinking is perfectly clear, and Fenn’s just too mentally exhausted to see it. He comes to some kind of decision, pushing the shower door open before effortlessly lifting Fenn again with an arm around his waist, holding him against his chest as he carries him out of the shower.

Part of Fenn is aggravated at being so casually manhandled, but most of him is just glad he doesn’t have to walk anywhere himself yet. His hands haven’t left Saxon’s shoulders since he stood them both up in the shower, and he’s still clinging when he’s put down so Saxon can grab a towel. He drapes it over Fenn, giving him a cursory rub down so he’s no longer dripping wet, leaving the towel around his shoulders so he can grab another and do the same for himself. Fenn’s hands get dislodged in the process, and he sways on unsteady feet for the minute it takes Saxon to dry off, but then Saxon grabs him again, carrying him out of the ‘fresher entirely. The cooler air of his bedroom is harsh against Fenn’s damp skin, and he shivers when Saxon sits him on the bed, leaving Fenn there and taking his warmth with him as he pulls away.

“Lay down,” Saxon tells him, hooking a forearm under Fenn’s knees and turning him so he has no choice but to comply. He’s rolled so his back is to Saxon, and the bed dips right before his chest is pressed to Fenn’s back, his arm pulling the sheets up over them before it drapes over Fenn’s hip. Saxon’s breath is hot on the back of his neck, his hand warm where it lays on his stomach, and Fenn can already feel his eyes drifting shut. For a brief moment he fights the exhaustion, tries to will himself up so he can kick Saxon out of his bed and out of the room entirely, but his entire body feels so heavy he can barely lift his head, much less the rest of him. So Fenn gives up, relaxing into the familiar comfort of his bed as he closes his eyes, and lets sleep pull him under.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year everybody! And a belated Merry Whatever-You-Celebrate, too!  
> I now have a vague idea of where this is going to go, plot-wise, but I can't make any promises on how quickly the next chapter will be out - I started a new job recently and it's been kicking my butt lol
> 
> I hope this chapter is up to snuff, since it feels to me like it's not quite as polished, but if I don't make myself post it now I'm afraid I never will :V

Artemes Calad rolls his shoulder, wincing at the twinge the muscles in his neck give in response. He’d slept on it wrong or something, because it’s been bothering him all day. He’d also drawn the short straw on assignments this morning and gotten stuck patrolling the back end of the base on his own. It’s the most tedious route in his opinion, with plenty of places for potential intruders to hide, and a whole lot of nothing to distract himself with once he’d checked those. Now he’s at the end of his patrol, nearly back in the base proper. He checks in with his replacement, then heads straight for the canteen – he hasn’t eaten anything since breakfast, and it’s well into the afternoon now. He’s made it back just in time for the mechanics bay shift change, and the cafeteria isn’t quite full, but it’s certainly busy.

“Hey, Calad!” Artemes glances to his right, finds a trio of men waving him down from one of the smaller tables. Their helmets are already off, pushed together at the center of their table beside drinks and half-empty plates. He changes direction without a thought, removing his own helmet and adding it to the bunch as he sinks into the offered chair with a tired thanks. Artemes knows all three of them; Keenan Creel, one of the mechanics, then Groex Mantisa and Renn Solimar, who he remembers had both gotten hangar duty at assignment that morning. Mantisa pushes a fresh mug of caf in front of him, and Artemes downs half of it without prompting.

“Figured you’d need it, stuck on back road patrol by yourself,” Mantisa tells him, clapping Artemes on what is thankfully his good shoulder.

“Thanks,” he says once he’s not inhaling caf, looking up to see Creel flagging down the serving droid. Whatever conversation his entrance had interrupted picks back up once he’s ordered, and Artemes takes more reasonable sips of his remaining caf as he listens.

“So, notice anything interesting on your way back in?” Creel grins once the conversation has lulled again, leaning his elbows on the tabletop. 

“No?" It’s Solimar who finally clues him in, but not before they all let him fruitlessly stew for a minute, wracking his memory for whatever Creel might be referring to. He doesn’t come up with much, none of it notable enough to bear mentioning.

“Our illustrious Viceroy has seen fit to grace us with his presence once more,” Solimar tells him with no small degree of sarcasm. Renn’s probably the most even-keeled person Artemes has ever met, and this might be the most he’s seen him emote in all the time he’s known him. None of  the Protectors have any love for Saxon or his commandos; unlike Artemes, who’d been a young child when the Republic turned into the Empire, the majority of them were old enough to remember when Death Watch had been a real and present threat, and to remember who’d traded in their Death Watch colors for Imperial ones. 

“Really?” Artemes says past a mouthful of noodles the serving droid has just set in front of him, “What for?”

“Why does that di’kut ever show up?” Mantisa sips his caf and they all go quiet, faces twisting in various shades of disgust and contemplation. 

Artemes had officially been a Protector for barely two weeks when Fenn Rau had been captured by the rebels, so he hadn’t been around long enough to see the Viceroy come calling for himself, but he and Rau had apparently been meeting close to regularly for nearly six months before that. Most of them had guessed something was up, given the clandestine nature of things, but only a few men had (however jokingly) guessed correctly that they were sleeping together. 

However much the idea had been met with good humored derision at first, once it had been suggested things started adding up alarmingly well. Then Dahn Solon – Rau’s right hand man, who’d stepped into the role of Chief Protector in all but name for the duration of his absence, and had just as much dislike for Saxon as the rest of them – had only added fuel to the fire when he’d gone to Saxon for help. The fact that Saxon had laid a trap for the rebels – rather than using the opportunity to dismantle the Protectors entirely, now that Solon had essentially confessed to committing treason – had just cemented the legitimacy of the idea completely. Now it was basically an open secret, though no one had been stupid or brave enough to bring it up with Rau himself yet.

“Who d’you think tops?” Creel wonders aloud. Artemes chokes on his noodles, only managing to clear his throat when Solimar pounds him firmly on the back.

“Osik, Creel, I’m trying to eat!” he complains once he can breath again. “I don’t want to think about exactly how Gar bloody Saxon is kriffing the Chief!” 

“Neither do I!” Creel protests, his own nose wrinkling in distaste at the idea, “But you can’t tell me you’ve never wondered!” Artemes has no retort for that, so he just scowls across the table at Creel before shoving more noodles in his mouth to avoid answering.

“I suppose it depends on what you think the Chief’s preference is,” Mantisa finally says in the new silence that’s fallen. “Can’t see him putting up with Saxon otherwise.” Solimar huffs what might have been a laugh from someone a little more expressive.

“Saxon must be a good lay if they haven’t killed each other yet,” Solimar opines. “A year ago, they would have been at each other's throats if you left them alone together for more than five minutes.” 

“Sure, but that still doesn’t answer the question.” Creel shifts in his seat, absently fiddling with the remains of his meal. Silence reigns once more. Artemes heaves an aggravated sigh and pushes his nearly empty bowl away.

“It’s gotta be the Chief,” he says, “He wouldn’t let Saxon have that kind of control, he’s too stubborn.” 

“But you could say the same thing about Saxon!” Creel protests. “Everybody says he’s a total control freak, and he’s just as stubborn as the Chief.” 

“He’s right,” Mantisa agrees, nodding. “We don’t have enough evidence one way or the other.” Mantisa grins then. “Plus, you can’t say the Chief tops just because you want him to, Calad.” 

Artemes flushes and sputters, “Shut up!” It's no secret at this point that Artemes used to have a bit of a crush on Fenn Rau. Still has one, really, but it’s not like he’s ever expected it to go anywhere. Knowing the Chief is sleeping with Gar Saxon has helped put a damper on the honestly juvenile feelings anyway. “He asked what I thought! And anyway, the only way we’d ever know for sure is by asking one of them. Do _you_ want to be the one to ask the Chief that? Or Saxon?” 

Everyone goes quiet at that. Talking among themselves like this was one thing, but confronting Saxon? Or even worse, the Chief? Nobody wanted to think about that.

“I’m with Calad.” It’s Solimar who finally breaks the silence, after he’s taken a long gulp of his drink. “Saxon’s a total brat. I’ve heard some things, about back when Death Watch was still in power.” Creel perked up at that, drawn in hook, line, and sinker by the promise of potentially juicy gossip. 

“Really now?” Creel says, leaning both elbows on the table. “What kinds of things?” Solimar just hums wordlessly and takes another drink, apparently having said his piece. “C’mon, Renn, you can’t leave me with just that!” Creel complains, but it’s to no avail. 

“I don’t know,” Mantisa says in the new lull, “Saxon’s a big guy. Seems like a waste if you ask me. Assuming that everything’s proportional.” Artemes groans lowly, scrubbing a hand over his face.

“Do we have to talk about this?” he mutters, and he’s promptly ignored. Artemes could say with confidence that discussing the size of Saxon’s dick hadn’t been where he’d expected this conversation to go. 

“ _Is_ everything proportional though?” Creel asks, raising an eyebrow. “Maybe that’s why he’s such an asshole all the time.” Artemes can’t restrain a snort, and Mantisa lets out a sharp bark of laughter. Even Solimar chuckles.

“I don’t think so,” Mantisa says, “I knew a guy like that once, had a chip on his shoulder the size of Concordia. Saxon’s an asshole, sure, but he’s a smug one.” There’s no disagreement to that. Saxon has done well for himself in the years since the formation of the Empire, taking control of Mandalore – in an arguably more legitimate way than Death Watch had – by becoming Viceroy. Artemes supposes he’d be smug in that situation too. 

Regardless of it all, Artemes has had enough. His bowl is empty and and his mug has long since been drained, and he fully intends to collapse on his bunk and get a few hours of shuteye. The table quiets as he stands and pushes his chair back in, grabbing his helmet from the pile.

“Alright, I’m beat,” he says, “I’m going to go get some sleep.” There’s a chorus of goodbyes as he starts for the canteen entrance, but then Artemes hears the scrape of another chair and looks over his shoulder. Mantisa jogs to catch up to him, settling a friendly arm over his shoulders once he does.

“Viewfinder’s been acting fiddly all day,” Mantisa explains lightly, holding his own helmet aloft in example. “I need to grab the toolkit from my room, figured I’d keep you company on your way to the barracks.” 

“Okay,” Artemes says, relaxing from where he’d tensed up a little. He’d grown up an only child with no cousins close to his own age, and he was still getting used to how easily physical Mantisa was sometimes. Mantisa gives him a grin at the agreement, but once they’re outside his face turns serious.

“Hey, you alright?” he asks carefully, “You seemed uncomfortable with the conversation back there.” Artemes shakes his head, resisting the instinct to shrug since that would jostle Mantisa’s arm.

“I’m fine,” he assures him. “Just tired. It’s a pain being on back road patrol by yourself.” Mantisa nods along to that – Artemes isn’t the only person to ever draw the short straw there.

“You’ve got that right,” Mantisa agrees with a sigh. Artemes can feel his arm slipping off his shoulders when movement catches both their eyes. The way to the barracks takes them past the landing platform, and they both stop to watch Gar Saxon go storming off towards his fighter, helmet in hand much like their own are. 

“Trouble in paradise?” Mantisa wonders as they start walking again, watching Saxon shove his helmet onto his head and climb into the fighter. They’re close enough that Artemes can see the edges of what are very clearly hickeys on Saxon’s neck, peeking above the edge of his undersuit.

“Guess so,” Artemes says, wondering if this means he was right. Unbidden, the mental image of Fenn Rau pushing Saxon against a wall and attacking his neck comes to mind, and he shakes his head to dispel it. Stars knows if he goes too far down that line of thought he’ll never be able to look the Chief in the eye. 

“You see his neck?” Mantisa asks him, raising an eyebrow.

“Yep.”

“Creel’s gonna have a field day with that,” he chuckles. Then he uses the arm he still has around Artemes’ shoulders to give him a gentle shake. “You want to tell him, or should I?” Artemes does shrug now, but it barely budges Mantisa’s arm.

“Does it really matter?” he wonders, and Mantisa gives a shrug of his own. 

“I guess not.” Saxon’s fighter roars overhead, ruffling Mantisa’s dark curls and throwing them into his eyes. They watch it shrink into a little dot in the sky as it climbs out of Concord Dawn’s atmosphere, until it fades completely from view. “I sure hope the Chief’s in a better mood,” Mantisa says. Artemes is inclined to agree.

* * *

Fenn sucks in a shuddering breath, a shiver running up his spine as he turns his face into his pillow. He stares at the bare wall that one side of his bed is pushed against as awareness creeps over him, and it takes a moment for him to realize there’s a hand on his cock. A pleasant heat builds in his stomach as it firmly squeezes him from base to tip, coaxing a soft groan from him when the thumb glides through the precum beading at the head, before lazily sliding back down. Somehow he knows it’s Saxon’s hand without even needing to look, along with the burning hot length rocking against his ass. 

Fenn’s only been aware that he’s dreaming in the moment a few times before, and he’d certainly never become lucid during any of the dreams with him and Saxon like this. He arches back experimentally, finding the movement unimpeded save for the other man’s solid weight at his back, and a little electric jolt of pleasure shoots through him. Somehow, knowing it’s a dream that he can actually exert some control over this time helps, and Fenn doesn’t even feel ashamed that it’s yet another wet dream featuring Gar Saxon. All he feels is the slowly building tension in his gut as dream-Saxon groans, pressing his mouth to the junction of Fenn’s neck and shoulder.

“Fenn,” he practically purrs, voice low and rough with sleep. The use of his first name is confusing for a moment, before he decides it makes as much sense as anything else in a dream. He doesn’t think twice about reaching back to grab Saxon’s hip, using the leverage to grind back against his cock. Fenn shudders and gasps when the hand around his own cock tightens further in response to the motion, and Saxon moans into his neck. “You’re surprisingly eager,” he says, and Fenn huffs. He could have done without his subconscious being quite this accurate to Saxon’s personality, but there’s apparently no separating the man’s physical appeal from his frustratingly smug attitude, even in his own mind. This is a dream though, Fenn reminds himself, and surely since he’s aware of that he can change things?

“Quiet,” Fenn orders, taking his hand off Saxon’s hip as he turns his upper body, winding his fingers into Saxon’s hair instead and crushing their mouths together. Saxon makes a startled sound when Fenn bites his lip, his mouth slack and yielding to Fenn’s tongue when he licks into him. After a moment Saxon growls and tries to take control of the kiss, but Fenn sharply yanks on his hair, forcing his head back and exposing his neck. Saxon hisses, his hand stilling on Fenn’s cock, and though he aches at the loss of friction Fenn ignores it, focusing on sucking a bruise high on Saxon’s throat. Fenn grinds his ass back into Saxon’s cock when his hand doesn’t start moving again, in spite of Fenn thinking it as hard as he can, and Saxon groans low in his chest. 

“Fuck,” Saxon breaths, hand finally stroking Fenn’s cock again, and he sighs in relief. He starts in on a new patch of skin as he lifts a leg, turning a little more so he can drape it over one of Saxon’s, angling himself so the head of Saxon’s cock rubs between his cheeks. The hand stroking him, Saxon’s sharp gasps every time he bites down, the blunt head of his thick cock sliding teasingly against Fenn’s ass, all of it sends little shocks of arousal through him, heat curling low in his stomach. Fenn lets it go on long enough to leave a few more marks on Saxon’s neck, all of them ranging from an irritated red to a deep, angry purple. The other man has gone strangely pliant, even arching his neck to give Fenn more room to work, and when Fenn pulls him back in for another kiss he goes without protest. Kriff, Fenn could get used to this, if only the real Saxon was so easy to deal with. The thought of pinning this almost submissive version of Saxon on his stomach and fucking him into the bed makes him moan, but there’s no way of knowing when he’ll wake up, and Fenn’s enjoying this too much to risk accidentally jolting himself out of the dream. 

Fenn pulls Saxon’s hair again, relishing the breathy groan it gets him, and reaches between his legs with his other hand. Saxon’s cock is hard and hot in his palm when he grabs it, twitching and leaking precum as Fenn presses it to his ass, and the weight of it in his hand like this is exhilarating. He teases himself a bit more, Saxon panting into his mouth while Fenn alternates between holding the tip against his hole, as if he’s finally going to sink back and let it spread him open, and dragging it between his cheeks, smearing Saxon’s precum across his skin. 

When he’s had enough and finally pushes the head of Saxon’s cock into him, they both gasp, Saxon shuddering as he bottoms out in one long, slow slide. Fenn’s toes curl at how full he feels, releasing Saxon’s cock to press his hand to his stomach once it’s far enough inside him that it won’t slip back out. _Fierfek,_ he can feel it under his palm when Saxon rocks out and back in, his cock so deep in him at this angle that the head pushes out a visible little bump just below Fenn’s belly button. He’s breathless as Saxon starts a slow rhythm, carefully pulling out a little ways and pushing back in with a low hum. It’s good, but it’s not at all what Fenn wants out of a dream where he’s finally in control, with no idea of when or if it’ll happen again.

“Harder,” Fenn groans against Saxon’s mouth, tugging at his hair and biting his lower lip when the demand isn’t immediately met, snarling over the sound Saxon makes. “I said _harder!_ ” Saxon growls, releasing Fenn’s cock so he can hook his arm under Fenn’s knee, lifting his leg to spread him open. He starts pounding into him with abandon, hips slamming against Fenn’s ass with a wet smack. 

“ _Oh,_ ” Fenn moans, tosses his head back against the pillow, opening his eyes after a minute to watch Saxon – he has his eyes clenched shut, still propped up on an elbow with his head bent at what has to be an uncomfortable angle as he breathes hard, sweat beading on his brow from the exertion. Fenn lightly tugs his hair again, and Saxon gasps a broken, needy sound. 

“Kriff, _Fenn,_ ” he pants, the rhythm of his thrusts beginning to stutter, and Fenn narrows his eyes.

“Don’t cum yet,” Fenn growls, harshly yanking Saxon’s hair, “Not until I give you permission.” He feels Saxon’s cock twitch inside him as the man hisses through grit teeth, neck arching as his head falls back again. Fenn watches his throat bob as he swallows thickly, can just catch his lashes fluttering from this angle while Saxon keeps fucking him, the muscles in his arms and shoulders visibly taut. He loosens his grip on Saxon’s hair and slides the hand on his stomach down to fist his cock, stroking in time with the rhythm of Saxon’s hips. It’s hotter than it should be, having Gar Saxon following his orders, clenching his jaw as he desperately tries not to cum before Fenn lets him, even if he knows it isn’t real. 

“Keep going,” Fenn says breathlessly when Saxon starts to slow, rocking back on his cock and bucking forward into his own hand in turns. “Don’t you dare stop, Saxon.” He’s so close, a part of him is sure it’s going to end up just like every other dream; Fenn waking at the last second, embarrassingly hard, with vivid memories of Saxon debauching him in some manner or another. He squeezes his cock and pets the back of Saxon’s head, closing his eyes to focus on the feeling of Saxon inside him.

“This is all you’re good for,” Fenn pants, the words slipping out of him without much thought, “Fucking me with your big cock.” Saxon’s breath hitches, and it just encourages Fenn to keep going. “Should just keep you here in my bed, tie you up so you can’t touch yourself while I’m gone. Put a ring on your cock, so you stay nice and hard for me.” The picture he’s painting makes him throb, and he feels an answering shiver against his back as Saxon moans. Fenn’s own voice is high and strained, and he lets out a soft little ‘ _ah!’_ as Saxon bucks into him. “Then at the end of the day I’d ride you ‘til you’re begging me, and if you’re a good boy, maybe I’d let you cum too. Do you wanna be a good boy for me, Saxon? You wanna cum?” 

“ _Fuck,_ yes, _please,_ ” Saxon moans, and the arousal that shoots through Fenn at that response is dizzying. The sound of Saxon’s voice, soft and pleading, literally begging him is too much, and Fenn can feel his orgasm rushing toward him, clenching down on the cock inside him as every muscle in his body starts to spasm. Saxon actually _whines,_ still thrusting into him, hand bruisingly tight on Fenn’s thigh. Fenn has just enough presence of mind to pull Saxon’s face to his, locking eyes with him.

“Do it, cum for me,” Fenn gasps, cock twitching as he spills over his own hand with a full body shudder. He watches through narrowed eyes as Saxon’s mouth drops open wordlessly and his eyes shut in an almost pained expression, feels his hips slam home against his ass a few more times before he goes still, his cock pulsing deep inside Fenn and filling him with cum. The moment stretches, the euphoria of orgasm still reverberating through him as his pulse starts to slow, and he feels pleasantly boneless when he relaxes into the bed with a sigh. Saxon collapses next to him, breath hot on the back of his neck, and Fenn distantly wonders why he hasn’t woken up yet, even as he’s simultaneously grateful for it. He wonders if he can speed things up, jump forward like his dreams sometimes do, so that he can revisit his earlier idea of pinning dream-Saxon down and having his way with him. 

Fenn’s just started trying to make the dream change around him, brow furrowing as he concentrates past the lingering haze of pleasure, when Saxon’s body stiffens against his back. He winces when Saxon abruptly pulls out of him, the bed bouncing as he rolls away from Fenn and stands. The oddness of the dream continuing strikes him again as he watches Saxon disappear into the ‘fresher, his footfalls fast and heavy, and he slams his hand into the door controls to close it behind him. Fenn stares at the ‘fresher door for a few moments, his mind slowly working through it all as it clears, before the realization hits him all at once and his eyes go wide. 

He _wasn’t_ dreaming. All of that had really just happened 

Whatever Saxon’s doing in there, he isn’t quick about it, but all that matters is that it gives Fenn the few minutes he needs to quietly panic and subsequently calm himself down. Now that he’s more awake, he remembers Saxon intruding on his much needed shower, and how he wound up sleeping next to him, though that part is fuzzy and unclear thanks to how completely exhausted he’d been. It’s only been a couple hours since all of that when Fenn glances at the chrono by his bed, and he’s honestly surprised that he feels as rested as he does. _Kriff,_ it’s mortifying to think about, how easily he’d let Saxon have his way, much less the fact that he’d been so out of it afterward that he hadn’t protested when Saxon carried him to bed and practically _cuddled_ with him. Fenn groans quietly and lifts a hand to rub over his face, just barely managing to stop in time when he remembers that it’s still covered in his own cum. He grimaces at it, then at the rest streaking his belly, and wipes it off on the already ruined sheets, all while resisting the urge to squirm at the feeling of Saxon’s cum slowly leaking out of him.

Part of him still can’t believe what had just happened had actually – well, happened. He’s shocked that Saxon had let him get away with so much, that he hadn’t snapped the second Fenn yanked his hair and made demands, hadn’t pinned him to the bed in response and snarled threats he was fully capable of following through on into Fenn’s ear to regain control of the situation. It runs contrary to every interaction he’s ever had with Saxon, both before and after the start of their deal, and it leaves Fenn confused and unsure of where they stand now. He sighs, swallowing dryly and massaging the heel of his clean hand over his forehead in an attempt to soothe the headache that’s starting to settle in. It’s probably from dehydration, he’d sweated a good deal before Saxon had gotten here, and he hadn’t had anything to drink since the short break he’d taken halfway through working on his fighter. He squeezes his eyes shut to block out the too bright light on the ceiling, putting forth a conscious effort to unclench his jaw and relax his shoulders. 

Fenn only opens his eyes again when the ‘fresher door slides open a few minutes later and Saxon strides out, back in his full armor except for his helmet and gauntlets. Saxon says nothing as he walks to the desk, where Fenn can now see the missing pieces are sitting, his expression neutral where Fenn had been expecting anger. The tense silence stretches as Saxon pulls on his gauntlets, and Fenn still hasn’t figured out what to say be the time he picks up his helmet. A couple of the marks he’d left are peeking out from the neck of Saxon’s undersuit, and there’s something deeply satisfying about seeing it that Fenn doesn’t examine too closely. 

The silence is near unbearable now, and Fenn feels like he should say something, not that he knows exactly what that something is. “Saxon –,” he begins anyway, but is cut off when Saxon whirls around with a snarl, crossing the short distance to the bed with loud steps to loom over him.

“Shut up!” he growls, one huge hand darting out to push Fenn back and pin him to the bed by his throat. Fenn can’t contain a startled yelp as he bounces once before settling, staring wide-eyed up at Saxon’s angry face. He’s thankful that Saxon isn’t actually squeezing or cutting off his air, but his hand is still disconcertingly tight around his neck regardless. So much for Saxon’s calm, Fenn thinks even as he’s instinctively frozen. His own hand has darted up of its own accord to grab Saxon’s wrist, but he doesn’t bother trying to dislodge him. It would be a futile effort, only serving to possibly make Saxon even angrier.

Fenn says and does nothing. For long seconds his eyes are locked with Saxon’s as the man scowls down at him, looming close enough to fill Fenn’s vision, and he’s struck by how bright and piercing the gray of Saxon’s eyes are. Age and a lifetime of fighting may have turned his white-blond hair to silver, but aside from that he doesn’t show his years. Not any more than Fenn does anyway, and Saxon is older than him.

Either Saxon has gone through some internal revelation or Fenn’s lack of resistance has appeased him, because the scowl fades into an almost thoughtful expression. Fenn hadn’t noticed that Saxon had placed a knee on the edge of the bed, but now he sits back on his heel and looks down his nose at him. The hand is still firm on his neck, but Saxon’s thumb lightly strokes the side of his throat as he glances down Fenn’s body. Fenn hates how vulnerable it feels, to be naked and wrung out, his own cum still smeared across his belly and Saxon’s slowly leaking out of him, while Saxon sits there securely clothed and armored. His cock gives a traitorous if futile twitch, and Fenn clamps down on the urge to squirm in Saxon’s grip.

Saxon drags his eyes back up Fenn’s body to meet his gaze again. Just as abruptly as he’d pinned him, Saxon releases him and stands. He turns and makes for the door, fingers tight around the edge of his helmet.

“Don’t try that again,” Saxon tells him, sounding more annoyed than angry now. Fenn can’t help the impulse to scoff and snipe back a smart comment.

“You didn’t stop me,” he says, and that makes Saxon pause, his hand hovering over the door controls. It’s true though, Saxon would have had little trouble knocking Fenn’s grip away and pinning him down, putting Fenn right where he wanted him and keeping him there. When Saxon looks back at him it’s with a scowl and narrowed eyes. It’s clear he’s considering coming back across the room, the leather of his glove squeaking as his grip gets even tighter on the helmet.

“Shut up,” he growls instead, slamming his palm into the door controls. It opens behind him and for a moment he’s backlit by the hallway light, only a silhouette before Fenn’s eyes adjust again. “I can still bomb this moon to slag, Rau. Remember that.” It feels like an empty threat, but it’s not the kind of thing Fenn’s willing to take a chance on. So he keeps his mouth shut this time, and after a few moments Saxon turns away to storm off down the hallway. 

The door automatically closes after a few moments and Fenn collapses back on the bed once it does, letting out a tired breath. He still hasn’t completely processed all of what’s happened, not from before he’d fallen asleep or after Saxon had woken him up. He takes his time pushing himself to his feet, cleaning up, and getting dressed. Then Fenn starts back toward the hangar; his fighter should have been taken for a test flight by now, and there should be reports for him to go over. He’s still tired, just like he’s been every other time after Saxon’s finished with him. Before anything else he’s the Chief Protector though, and his duties won’t wait just because Saxon is a literal pain in his ass.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like to start off by saying thank you SO MUCH to all the people who've left comments that I haven't replied to. I'm awful at replying to comments normally, so all this craziness with a global pandemic sure isn't helping lol
> 
> I never thought people would like this fic as much as they seem to; hell, I didn't expect to get much in the way of hits at all, much less nearly 500! And all your guys' comments give me LIFE, I love them! I'm so glad you're all enjoying things so far, and I hope you enjoy where I take it, because surprise! A plot has finally started taking shape! The pwp tag is no longer wholly applicable!

Fenn climbs out of his fighter, pointedly ignoring the commandos sporting Saxon’s colors stationed around the outpost’s landing platform. He still isn’t comfortable with the knowledge that both his and Saxon’s men know they’ve been sleeping together. And Fenn can’t think of any other reason Saxon would have called him here – that's what it has been nearly every other time he’s come to this outpost before now, though those had notably been before Saxon had gotten the nerve to just start fucking Fenn in his own quarters at the Protector’s camp. 

The last time he’d been here was the exception to that pattern. Saxon had ordered him here just after he’d been freed from Rebel captivity, to give Mandalorian Intelligence everything he could remember about his time there. He’d gotten the distinct impression it had  _ only _ been for Mandalorian Intelligence, rather than something that would be shared with the Imperials too, and Fenn couldn’t say he hadn’t been wondering about that. As far as he could tell it was only his Protectors, Saxon, and a select group of Saxon’s people that knew he’d been held captive by the Rebels at all. It certainly raised a few questions.

As it is, Fenn doesn’t need the awkwardness of trying to pretend he’s only here on official Protector business if he acknowledges any of Saxon’s people. He doesn’t even remove his helmet once he’s inside. Fenn does take note of the few other ships on the landing platform before he leaves though. He can see Saxon hasn’t come in his personal fighter, and instead there’s a small transport that he and the men Fenn had seen must have ridden in. There is another fighter here besides Fenn’s, but he doesn’t recognize it as belonging to anyone in particular. Much like the guards, it sports clan Saxon colors, but that doesn’t tell him much, only that whoever it belongs to is almost certainly under Saxon’s command.

Fenn pauses for a moment once the door leading out to the platform closes behind him, wondering where he should expect Saxon to be. It wasn't like he’d been given any kind of specific instructions, just a short message that had said to come to the outpost without much more detail than that. None of Saxon’s men are inside that he can see, leaving him without any kind of direction to work off of. 

The outpost isn’t exactly sprawling, little more than a rest stop between Mandalore and Concord Dawn, with a small stock of fuel and supplies. The list of places Saxon could be was as short as you would expect from someplace so small and out of the way. Fenn assumes that’s also why Saxon had chosen it to corner him in the past, when keeping the true purpose of their meetings secret had been something he cared about. He doesn’t understand why Saxon would call him all the way out here now, but he wouldn’t claim to understand how that man’s mind worked any more than he’d claim to understand a strill. 

For lack of a better method, Fenn begins with the closest part of the outpost and systematically works his way through the rooms. The first one he checks is a small storage area, sparsely filled with a couple crates of rations but otherwise empty. The next is a tiny bunk room, with no sign of anyone having used it for longer than Fenn had been coming here. He’s a little annoyed now that he’d spent every meeting here on his knees in some uncomfortable corner of the outpost, when the whole time there’d been a room full of perfectly good bunks right here. He’s definitely going to put his foot down if Saxon’s feeling some annoying variety of adventurous and intends to fuck him someplace else in the outpost. 

It’s with some trepidation now that Fenn checks the next room. The lack of detail in the message Saxon had sent seems even more odd now, and he isn’t sure what to think of it. After the way things had gone last time, and by extension the terse conversation they’d had afterwards, Fenn had hoped things would be back to normal. Or at least as normal as things got between him and Saxon. Fenn could have done with the Viceroy forgetting he even existed and leaving him alone entirely, not that he was holding his breath for that. 

He really hopes now that this isn’t all part of some kind of revenge plot Saxon’s concocted. The other man is certainly proud and stubborn enough to think he has to do something to reassert his control over Fenn. What that might be, Fenn doesn’t know, but he isn’t keen on finding out. A part of him screams to turn tail and run, but Fenn Rau is no coward, and he certainly won’t give Saxon the satisfaction of knowing he’s scared him. So Fenn takes a steadying breath and squares his shoulders, moving on to the next door and tapping the controls. Well, it seems he’s finally found Saxon, but he isn’t alone like Fenn had been expecting.

This room is obviously meant for meetings and briefings, dominated by a long table surrounded by chairs, a holoprojector mounted in its center. It’s a stark contrast to the room Fenn had spent his time with Mandalorian Intelligence in, which had only been big enough for the tiny table and two chairs he and the intelligence officer had sat in. Saxon stands at the head of the table, directly across from the door, and he looks up when it opens. To Saxon’s right is an almost emotionless man Fenn recognizes as Dietrich Triball, Saxon’s second in command. It takes him a moment longer to place the man on Saxon’s left, but he quickly sees the family resemblance between Saxon and his younger brother. 

Tiber looks enough like a younger version of Saxon that it’s shocking at first, but once the initial surprise passes Fenn can see the differences easily. He’s not as big as Saxon is, height or otherwise, and though their faces are similar they’re far from identical. Tiber lacks his brother’s wider squared jaw, and it leaves his face looking narrow and pointed. Oddly enough, it's the blue of his eyes that stands out to Fenn the most, giving his mind pause where, on some level, he’d been expecting Saxon’s familiar gray. He’s glad his helmet is still on to hide the rapid darting of his gaze between Saxon and Tiber’s faces as he compares them. 

“Rau, how kind of you to finally join us,” Saxon says, flat and unamused. He looks like he’s already in a bad mood, and whether that’s from waiting for Fenn or something else he doesn’t know. 

“Saxon,” Fenn answers with a stiff nod, his voice as polite as he can make it. He makes a show of turning his head to take in Triball and then Tiber, stepping forward until he’s standing at the table across from Saxon. Triball doesn’t react at all, not that Fenn had expected him to, but Tiber gets a face like he’s just taken a particularly strong shot of tihaar. Well, Fenn hadn’t been hoping for a warm welcome from a member of clan Saxon anyway, so he’s not exactly put out. “I assumed it wasn’t urgent, seeing as you neglected to include any details in your message.” 

“For good reason,” Tiber snaps with a pinched frown. The corner of Saxon’s mouth tics downward briefly, and Fenn feels safe in assuming he’s found the source of Saxon’s bad mood. Triball continues to watch them all silently, his face still an expressionless mask. It’s more than a little unnerving – Fenn might not be able to figure out what Saxon’s thinking often enough, but he can usually gauge his mood fairly accurately, and so far Tiber is proving to be an open book. Then on the other hand there’s Triball, whose sabacc face is damn near perfect, and Fenn can’t get anything from the man.

“There’s a good chance your communications are being monitored,” Saxon says, and that sure catches Fenn’s attention. 

“Monitored? By who?” he demands, shoulders squaring as he all but slams his palms down on the table. Saxon pointedly takes his helmet from where it’s propped against his hip and slides it onto the table in front of him. He waits with an expectant silence until Fenn relents, popping the seal on his own helmet and setting it aside. He’s frowning when he meets Saxon’s eyes again, this time without the comfortable barrier of his visor between them. “Who would be monitoring the Protectors communications?” Fenn asks more evenly, pausing for a beat to think. “The Rebels?” 

From what little he’d seen while being kept prisoner, Fenn doesn’t think they have the resources to spare, not as many as it would take to effectively monitor the Protectors anyway. That’s part of the reason they’d needed a safe route through Protector-controlled space; both as a way to move people, and to quickly move the supplies they desperately needed. The only other possibility he can think of is that they have an inside man, someone who would already have access to their comms and information on their movements. Fenn would have dismissed the idea as ridiculous if it hadn’t been for Saxon himself proving it was possible. Add to that Sabine Wren’s presence among the rebels, and he could believe that one of his men might have been swayed by her where he himself hadn’t. Fenn certainly has no easy way of knowing if one of his men had grown sympathetic to the rebel cause over the course of his captivity. 

“Unlikely, but not impossible,” Saxon says, cutting Fenn’s thoughts short. “Our more immediate concern is the Empire.” That gives Fenn pause, and his eyebrows rise briefly in surprise before they furrow in confusion. 

“Why would the Empire be monitoring Protector communications?” Fenn asks, his frown deepening. He really shouldn’t be surprised, the Empire barely trusted its own people, much less anyone like the Protectors, whose loyalty was to Mandalore first and the Empire second. 

“Not just the Protectors.” Saxon taps at the controls for the holoprojector, and the room darkens slightly as it comes to life. “But Clan Saxon’s compound in Sundari, and my own office as Viceroy. There’s even evidence that they’ve recently begun monitoring all of Mandalore’s major military and political centers.” Fenn scans the charts and other information being projected. He’s never had any particular talent for interpreting raw data, but out of necessity over years of leading the Protectors he’s grown proficient at it, and his skill is enough for him to see the patterns Saxon is referring to. As far as he knows, the Empire hadn’t kept this close of a watch on Mandalore in years, not since Saxon had established himself as a loyal extension of the Emperor’s will. 

“Why the sudden attention?” Fenn asks, though he already has his own suspicions as to the answer. He pulls his gaze from a chart detailing comm frequency interference for the Viceroy’s office to meet Saxon’s eyes through the projection. Saxon taps the controls again and it shrinks, still visible but no longer taking up most of the space above the table. The lights brighten with another tap and Saxon straightens.

“It seems the Empire has taken notice of your prolonged absence and sudden reappearance,” he tells him. “And they evidently feel that Clan Saxon and myself are involved in some fashion.” Well they wouldn’t be wrong, Fenn thinks sardonically. He doesn’t like that he owes the Protectors’ continued autonomy to Saxon’s discretion, but the fact is that if he hadn’t kept Fenn’s capture a secret, they would have been all but disbanded. The Empire would have no doubt demanded a presence on Concord Dawn to combat the “rebel threat,” placing themselves as the sole authority there. Even if they’d bothered to rescue Fenn, he would have likely been taken to Sundari for extended questioning and monitoring by the ISB, imprisoned in all but name. 

He wonders for a moment why Saxon hadn’t let that happen; it would have put Fenn within much easier reach, and given Saxon even more leverage over him. That train of thought brings him back to now, and he wonders why Saxon dragged him out here to tell him all this, and why he brought his brother and his second along with him. 

“I assume there’s a reason you’re telling me all this?” Fenn says, glancing between Triball and Tiber. Why  _ were _ they here? Tiber hasn’t said much so far, and Triball has yet to say anything at all. And Saxon hardly needed them here to tell Fenn that the Empire is sticking its nose into their business. 

“In the debrief of your time with the rebels, you said Sabine Wren spoke with you frequently?” Saxon asks. It feels like a nonsequitur, but Fenn doesn’t press the matter. Saxon will get to his point soon enough, he’s sure. Instead, he gives a perfunctory nod.

“Yes. She made a number of attempts to convince me to join the rebels,” Fenn tells him. He doesn’t understand why they’re going over this again, doubtlessly Saxon’s read the report from Mandalorian Intelligence, and they’d been very thorough. 

Wren had visited him regularly while he was being held captive, and she’d made no attempt at pretending it was anything other than what it was, not that her attempts at recruitment had worked out. Fenn had sworn a duty when he’d first joined the Protectors, and then again when he’d become Chief Protector – he could no more join the rebellion and fight the Empire than he could abandon his men, not when doing so would also mean fighting against all the clans who had ceded to Saxon’s and the Empire’s authority, including Clan Wren. 

Saxon, of course, knows all this, at the very least as much of it as is in the report. Though the rest is hardly a secret, and Saxon knows it well enough to have used it to manipulate Fenn into their deal in the first place. 

“We believe that Sabine Wren will be paying her family a visit soon,” Saxon says. “And when she does, you’ll be there waiting for her.” Fenn blinks, frowning again.

“And why, exactly, would I be doing that?” he wonders, “Last time I checked, the rest of Clan Wren was loyal to Mandalore.” The fact that it’s because Saxon is essentially holding Alrich Wren hostage in Sundari is besides the point. Fenn knows that Ursa Wren isn’t going to do anything to give Saxon an excuse to retaliate, not with her husband’s safety on the line. Fenn might hate Saxon, and he might hate the underhanded tactics he uses to get what he wants, but he can’t deny that in this case it’s effective. “Plus, I don’t have time to waste on the chance Sabine Wren  _ might _ show up. Chief Protector is hardly an empty title.”

“Because,” Saxon begins with a hint of a sneer, “You’re the reason the Empire has grown suspicious in the first place, and capturing Sabine Wren will be the first step to allaying that suspicion.” He pauses to take a breath and smooth his expression back into a more neutral frown. “And your men managed just fine the last time you were gone, I’m sure they can handle it again.” At that Saxon scoops up his helmet, Tiber and Triball following his lead. Triball removes a data cylinder from the port on the table, tucking it into a pouch on his belt as the projection flickers out. 

“Regardless, you’re going to Krownest, to ensure their loyalty does not waver when Sabine Wren returns,” Saxon says with finality, sliding his helmet on as he rounds the table. Fenn is happy to follow suit, if only so he’s free to scowl and fume as much as he pleases without risking Saxon’s ire. He only follows Saxon out of the room and falls into step beside him because he wants to be back in his ship and gone as soon as possible. Triball follows a few paces behind them without pause, as silent as ever. Tiber lets out a small huff of aggravation though, clearly unhappy about being stuck behind Fenn.

“Do we have any idea of when she’ll be there?” Fenn asks grudgingly. At the very least he needs to know how long he should expect to be gone, both to make adjustments to his schedule and to pack. 

“We expect her to show within the week,” Saxon tells him, and that’s probably the best news Fenn’s heard since coming here. With any luck Sabine Wren will show up sooner rather than later, and then maybe Fenn can wash his hands of her and the rebels both. If only getting Saxon out of his life could be so easy. Then they’re outside on the landing platform and Triball is stepping past them, barking orders to the men standing guard. They leave their posts and start filing into the transport, while Tiber heads for the fighter Fenn hadn’t been able to place earlier, pointedly shouldering past Fenn to do it. He shoots a withering glare at Tiber’s back as he climbs into his ship, before turning his attention back to Saxon.

He and Saxon have both inexplicably paused just outside the doors leading into the outpost, and Fenn chances a glance at him. His mood is of course unreadable past the helmet, but the stiff set of his shoulders that had accompanied his annoyance earlier is gone. It’s the first time they’ve been something approaching alone since Saxon had left the Protectors camp, even if they’re on a landing platform technically full of people. Fenn’s still expecting some kind of retribution, maybe a threatening pronouncement of vengeance yet to come. Though he supposes that the task he’s been given could very well be that revenge, even if it is milder than he’d ever expect from Saxon normally. 

It feels like the longer he’s intimately familiar with Saxon, the less he understands how he thinks. Before their deal, Fenn had convinced himself that he’d known how Saxon thought and what he’d do most of the time – now he isn’t sure.

“I expect you to arrive at Krownest by the end of the day,” Saxon says, breaking the tense silence that’s fallen between them. “If we miss our chance to capture Sabine Wren because you took your time getting there, I’ll be taking it out of your hide.” Fenn can’t help sneering under his helmet, but the familiar threats are less offputting than the uncomfortable silence had been.

“If she escapes, it won’t be because of me,” Fenn snipes back. Tiber’s fighter is lifting off now, and Saxon’s men have finished boarding the transport, wind whipping around the platform from the combination of both ships' engines. The transport ramp is still down, but the ship is big enough that they can’t see Triball of any of the commandos from here. Then a large hand is possessively gripping the back of Fenn’s neck, and Saxon is suddenly much closer than he’d been just moments ago. Fenn freezes instinctively, spine going stiff.

“Don’t disappoint me, Rau,” he growls as he looms over Fenn, leaning down so he’s speaking directly into the audio receiver on the side of his helmet. The combination of the hand on his neck, the way Saxon is nearly pressed against his side but not quite, and the lowly growled words practically right in his ear, are a little too reminiscent of all the times Saxon has fucked him. It sends an involuntary shiver up Fenn’s spine before he can stop it. 

He’s so distracted that he doesn’t manage a reply before Saxon steps back and releases him. Fenn can’t bite back the surprised noise he makes when Saxon slaps his ass a second later, jolting half a step forward even as Saxon walks away with a chuckle. All he can manage is to clench his fists while his mouth opens and closes wordlessly, face burning with indignation over the fact that Saxon had just done that.

“I’ll be expecting a comm when Sabine Wren finally shows her face,” Saxon calls back without bothering to look, climbing the ramp and disappearing from view. Fenn spends a few moments glaring at the empty ramp before it begins closing, then he’s stomping back to his own fighter, hissing every insult he can think of at Saxon under his breath. It makes him feel a little better, once he’s sitting in the cockpit and preparing for takeoff, that is until his anger has cooled enough that he realizes he’s half hard. That just makes Fenn start in on a whole new litany of loudly cursing Saxon and his entire lineage, steadfastly ignoring his own traitorous body and subconscious that had apparently decided to conspire against him. 

It’s not that long of a flight back to the Protectors camp, not long enough when it seems like his anger at the situation is only making his problem worse, but his flight suit is forgiving enough that he should be alright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> originally this and the next chapter were going to be one big monster of an update, but it was already at 9,000 words and I STILL wasn't finished, so have this more reasonable chunk now instead of possibly in another month :V
> 
> I’m interpreting Tiber as being roughly a decade younger than Gar, about Kanan’s age maybe, and that he’s the way he is when we meet him because Gar getting killed just completely upended his entire world view. I imagine he was very much a child of Death Watch culture, and that as a kid Gar was his hero, to him Gar is the EPITOME of mandokarla
> 
> also please imagine young adult Gar getting kid Tiber in a headlock and giving him affectionate noogies, and just general dumb teenage boy roughhousing


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow, I got this out much sooner than I thought I would! I hope you all enjoy the longer chapter, because there's definitely going to be a longer wait for the next one, seeing as I haven't started it yet
> 
> if it isn't clear already, I'm accelerating the Rebels timeline to suit my own needs, not that this fic has much to do with canon at this point anyway lol

Fenn can say, without a shadow of a doubt, that he  _ hates _ Krownest. 

He’s never cared much for the cold, it reminds him too much of the empty void of space, and Krownest seems to be nothing but snow and ice. Even the Wren compound is cold, both in its reception and the feeling it gives him just looking at it. When he reaches low orbit and transmits on an open frequency to announce himself, he’s given grudging permission to land. The coordinates he’s sent take him over the Wren compound, to a clearing in the trees behind it with a landing pad cleared of snow.

There’s a trio of figures waiting for him when he touches down, standing in the open hangar he can now see is built into the hillside between here and the compound. They watch him climb out of his fighter, and once Fenn is on solid ground he’s surprised to see one of Saxon’s commandos is one of them. For a second he wonders why Saxon bothered to send him here if he already has one of his own men keeping an eye on Clan Wren. Fenn hikes his bag higher on his shoulder and pushes that line of thought aside as he approaches.

“Fenn Rau,” the commando greets once he’s close enough, “The Viceroy told us you’d be coming.” 

“Did he?” Fenn wonders, frowning. It seemed he was being watched just as closely as Clan Wren. The commando just nods, and the two warriors in clan Wren colors on either side of him say nothing.

“Right this way, the Countess is waiting,” the commando says, turning and gesturing for Fenn to follow. He does, and the commando takes him down a hall off the back wall of the hangar, the two Wren warriors keeping a respectful distance behind him where they’re bringing up the rear. The walk is silent aside from the slight echo of their footsteps, but Fenn doesn’t mind. He doubts the Wrens behind him have anything pleasant to say, and he has no interest in getting friendly with one of Saxon’s men. Though the commando might very well be the friendliest face he’ll see for awhile, until Sabine Wren arrives and Fenn can return to his Protectors.

After some time walking, the commando eventually leads them out into a large room, windows spanning the wall opposite their entrance. Waiting in a chair on a raised dais, the furniture in the style traditionally used by clan heads, sits Ursa Wren. She stands when they step down into the lower section of floor directly in front of the dais, leaving her helmet where it’s sitting beside her. Fenn’s a little surprised when the commando takes his helmet off, walking forward until he’s at the foot of the stairs that lead up to Ursa.

“Countess, Fenn Rau has arrived,” he announces, back straight and helmet at his side.

“I can see that,” she says, her expression carefully neutral save for a small frown. She gives the commando a nod and he relaxes, moving up and to the side until he’s just a few steps below her and to her left, then he turns to face Fenn. With his helmet off and standing next to Ursa, Fenn can immediately see the family resemblance between them, and with Sabine. He hadn’t heard that Tristan Wren had joined Saxon’s commandos, but then he hardly kept track of that kind of thing.

Fenn slips his bag off his shoulder, dropping it beside him so he can remove his own helmet and address her directly.

“Countess Wren,” he greets with a respectful nod, and her expression doesn’t waver.

“Fenn Rau,” she says cooly, “What reason does Gar Saxon have for sending you here?” Straight to the point. Fenn hadn’t expected anything less from Ursa Wren, and he can respect that kind of directness. 

“Saxon believes your daughter is going to make an appearance soon,” he tells her. “Specifically, that she’s going to come here.” That has Ursa’s eyes narrowing and her frown deepening.

“And he thinks that I would harbor her from the Empire?” Ursa asks, a nerve clearly struck. “My daughter is a traitor to Mandalore, and to the Empire, and Clan Wren is loyal to both.” It’s a proclamation made with conviction, though Fenn knows that while they both might be loyal to Mandalore, neither of them do more than tolerate Saxon and the Empire. They both simply have too much to lose if they don’t toe the line. In Clan Wren’s case however, he knows their position is more tenuous, and more publicly so at that. Fenn hadn’t heard a lot of specifics about what Sabine had done at the Imperial academy, but he’d heard enough. 

“I couldn’t say what Saxon thinks, and I don’t speak for him,” Fenn replies as neutrally as he can. He has no idea how long he’ll actually be here, Saxon’s predictions be damned, and the last thing he needs is to make an enemy of Ursa Wren while he’s stuck under her roof. “I was only told to wait here for your daughter to show herself.” 

That, at least, seems to mollify her some. Ursa certainly doesn’t look happy, but at least she doesn’t look as if she’d like nothing more than to throw him out on his shebs now. With the grace of someone used to reigning in their emotions when it’s necessary, Ursa sits back down, expression smoothed back into the neutral frown she’d had when Fenn had been brought in. 

“I will allow your presence here,” Ursa says after a moment's pause, “Under the condition that you do not interfere with Clan Wren business.” Her frown turns sterner and her eyes narrow at him, a no-nonsense expression if Fenn’s ever seen one. “I will not tolerate being ordered around by you or any of Saxon’s men, not in my own home.” Fenn can’t help the displeasure that no doubt shows on his face at being referred to as one of Saxon’s men. 

“Of course not, Countess,” he answers with another nod. He doesn’t bring up the fact that technically her son is also one of Saxon’s men, but then it’s obvious even from the brief time Fenn’s known him that his loyalties are to his clan first. Tristan doesn’t seem like the type to contradict his clan head, much less when it’s his own mother. “I wouldn’t presume to tell you what to do.” It isn’t like Saxon told him to capture Sabine himself. Fenn has every intention of staying out of the way and letting the inevitable clash between mother and daughter play out. All he has to do is ensure that Saxon is informed when it happens. 

“Good,” Ursa says with a curt nod of her own. “Tristan, show our guest to his room.” Tristan straightens at being addressed, turning away from Fenn to acknowledge his mother.

“Yes ma’am,” he replies, descending the steps as he shifts his attention back to Fenn. “Right this way.” Fenn shoulders his bag once more, following him out of the room and down another hallway. They walk in silence; the Wren compound is sizable, a testament to the clan’s power and influence in years past, and it takes a few minutes for Tristan to reach their destination a few turns later. He taps the keypad beside the door he’s led them to, stepping to the side once it opens to allow Fenn inside. 

“Here you are,” Tristan says, standing in the doorway again once Fenn has taken a few steps into the room. “I hope this will do?” It’s less utilitarian than the Protectors camp – it still sports the clean lines and practical shapes common to most Mandalorian architecture, but the Wren compound is clearly a home, rather than being a solely military structure. 

“Yes, thank you,” Fenn replies. That seems to put Tristan at ease, like he’d been expecting a harsh rebuttal of some kind. Fenn would have hoped his reputation with the Protectors would precede any association with Saxon, but evidently not. It’s frustrating on more than one level.

“If you need anything, just use the comm,” he tells Fenn, gesturing to the keypad inside the room, while Fenn drops his bag on the foot of the bed. “Someone will be sent to inform you when dinner is ready.” Fenn nods, and with that Tristan is gone. Once the door shuts behind him, a light on the keypad illuminating to show the automatic privacy lock has been engaged, Fenn turns his attention to examining the room more closely. 

It’s a fairly basic bedroom. A double bed, a nightstand on either side and a storage locker at the foot. An old fashioned armor stand, where Fenn hangs his helmet for safekeeping. The single floor-to-ceiling window stands out, opposite the door where it gives him a view of snowy woods and a sliver of the frozen lake the Wren compound borders. There’s a small table with two chairs beside it, and a door that leads to a barebones ‘fresher on the wall to his left. Overall, not the worst place to be stuck for the foreseeable future. His examination of the room complete, Fenn takes some time to unpack, hanging the rest of his armor that he’d packed in his bag on the armor stand and putting the rest of his things in the storage locker. It doesn’t actually take him all that long, and he’s left with a whole lot of nothing to do when he’s done. 

Fenn sinks down onto the bed with a sigh, letting himself fall back to stare at the ceiling. He’d known this would be a waiting game, but that doesn’t make it any easier. He supposes he could familiarize himself with the Wren compound, but it doesn’t seem wise to him to test his hosts’ patience quite this soon. Tomorrow morning would be better for that, preferably when Ursa would be too busy with other things to pay him much mind. It isn’t like he intends to go snooping after all, he just doesn’t like the idea of not knowing his way through the somewhat confusing hallways. 

A soft trill echoes through the room, and Fenn sits up to look at the door. It takes him a moment to realize that the noise hadn’t come from there, and he frowns as he sweeps the room for the source. It sounds again and his gaze is drawn to the table, where a small holocomm sits, flashing to indicate an incoming call. Fenn isn’t sure who it is, but the list of potential callers is short, and the possibility that it’s from the Protectors has him standing to answer it. He tugs his gloves off as he crosses the room, and he sets them on the table beside the comm before tapping the blinking light to allow the connection. It flickers to life, solidifying into a familiar figure moments later, and Fenn’s mood immediately sours. 

“I see you’ve made it there on time,” Saxon says, and Fenn can’t help his huff of annoyance.

“Obviously,” he replies, restraining the urge to roll his eyes. “What is it?” Saxon must not be in any kind of hurry, because he lets his gaze sweep up and down Fenn’s form for a moment before answering.

“Just making sure you’re where you’re supposed to be,” Saxon tells him, unhurriedly dragging his eyes back up to Fenn’s. The bad mood he’d had at the outpost has vanished entirely now, and Saxon must really not be holding a grudge over their last encounter before that, because he’s practically leering. Or maybe he’s just thinking with his kad instead of his head right now. Fenn thinks that’s the more likely reason.

“You didn’t tell me you had a man here already,” Fenn says, hoping to steer the conversation back to business before Saxon can think of some other things he’d rather be doing on this call. 

“Tristan Wren has yet to prove himself trustworthy,” Saxon tells him, some of the heat in his gaze cooling. “I wouldn’t trust him to watch his own clan any more than I’d expect you to betray your Protectors.” It’s a fair point, as much as Fenn wishes it wasn’t so that he could leave this task to someone else. The only thing being projected on Fenn’s end is Saxon himself, but Saxon must be getting at least some of the room, because his focus shifts to the space around Fenn. “It seems he can follow instructions well enough though.” 

Fenn’s frown deepens and his eyes narrow. Just what was that supposed to mean? That Saxon had arranged for a specific room in the Wren compound? It could be the holocomm, it’s unusual for it to be transmitting enough that Saxon can see the room he’s in. Or is it something else? The not knowing is the worst, but there’s too many possibilities for him to narrow it down without more information.

“What directions?” Fenn asks. When Saxon grins now it’s distinctly predatory, and he sits in a chair that materializes into existence as he comes into contact with it, the comm adjusting automatically on his end to keep most of him in view. 

“Take a seat, Fenn,” he purrs, resting a hand on his thigh as his legs fall open. Fenn sputters indignantly as everything clicks, his face going red.

“You –! I’m not going to have kriffing holo sex with you, Saxon!” Fenn hisses lowly, very aware of the possibility that someone could be right outside his door, keeping an eye on him. “Not while I’m in the damned Wren compound!” The flat out refusal doesn’t put a damper on his mood, and in fact his grin only gets wider as he stretches one leg out, lounging further in his seat.

“Really?” he says, propping his head on his fist, “Does that mean I should call you when you’re someplace else?” Fenn scowls at the smug look on Saxon’s face, hands clenching into fists at his sides as he feels his flush spread. 

“That’s not what I meant and you know it,” he growls, but his reaction only seems to amuse Saxon. Even with the blue cast of the holo, Fenn can see that his cheeks have a little more color than usual, which means his own blush is perfectly visible. The picture is clear enough that he can see the way Saxon’s pupils are dilated when he gives Fenn another slow once over. 

“Then maybe I should just come see you in person,” Saxon says idly, “I’m sure Ursa Wren won’t mind one more guest. We can wait for Sabine Wren together.” The smile he gives Fenn now is lascivious, and Fenn knows there’d be very little “waiting” involved with Saxon here. He doesn’t know what’s gotten him into this mood he’s in, but he really doesn’t want to deal with the full weight of his focus in person if he’s like this over the holo.

“That won’t be necessary,” Fenn grits out, resigning himself to the situation with a long exhale.

“No?” Saxon wonders with false concern. “If you’re sure…”

“Yes,” he says shortly, and Saxon’s eyes darken even further somehow.

“Then sit down,” Saxon tells him again, thumb tracing the edge of his codpiece. “On the bed,” he clarifies when Fenn reaches for one of the chairs. Fenn sits grudgingly on the edge of the bed, stiff and unmoving with his hands atop his knees. He refuses to do more than the minimum of what Saxon tells him, determined to make this as difficult and frustrating for the other man as he can. 

“Strip,” Saxon orders, shifting in his seat as he finds and releases the catches on his codpiece. Fenn begins the process of removing the smaller pieces of armor that go with his flight suit, and the life support module on his chest. He doesn’t hurry, but he doesn’t go slowly either, doing his best to pretend Saxon isn’t even there. He leans to the side to set it all on top of the storage locker, then bends forward to remove his boots and socks. When he sits back up he sees Saxon watching him with dark eyes, palming himself through the material of his undersuit.

“Go on,” he says, when Fenn’s evidently paused for too long. He sucks in a sharp breath as he gives himself a squeeze, and Fenn hates that the sight and sound sends his own pulse racing. He stares resolutely at the wall as he unfastens his suit and shrugs it off his shoulders, letting it pool around his waist. He wonders exactly how little he can get away with removing as he slips off his hood and pulls his undershirt over his head, automatically running a hand through his hair to straighten it as he sets both pieces of clothing aside. His eyes dart back to Saxon and he pauses again. 

Saxon has finally unfastened his undersuit and pushed it down his hips, far enough that he can pull his cock free. He strokes himself slowly, lips parted slightly in distraction as he rakes hungry eyes over Fenn’s exposed skin. The arousal that surges through Fenn at the sight blindsides him, and for a moment he has to dig his fingers into the bed in an effort to regain control of himself. Seeing Saxon like this just reminds him of how pliant he’d been last time, the ease with which he’d bent to Fenn’s demands, and watching him run teasing fingers up the underside of his cock isn’t helping. 

Fenn’s hard now, an unmistakable tent in his underwear that peeks past the loose material of the suit where it’s slipped down even further. Saxon’s gaze drifts lower and he grins when he spots it, giving himself a single firm stroke before returning to the light touches he’d been using before. It drags a low hum of pleasure from him, and the sound sends a pleasant shiver up Fenn’s back as Saxon meets his eyes.

“Keep going,” Saxon tells him, his voice rough with arousal, “Let me see the rest of you.” Fenn curses his stupid subconscious; it should have taken more than three (four, if he counts the meeting where Saxon had pinned him against his fighter and rutted into the space between his thighs) times for his mind to associate Saxon’s arousal with getting off himself, but of course it’s his luck that it had. He tells himself that he isn’t enjoying this as he shimmies his suit off, kicking it into a pile on the floor. His hard cock tells a different story, bobbing up enthusiastically once Fenn works his underwear down to his thighs. He hears Saxon’s breath catch as he lets his boxers drop to the floor too, but he doesn’t look up, resolutely burying his hands in the comforter behind him to fight the temptation to touch himself.

“Fierfek,” Saxon breathes, and Fenn can’t resist sneaking a glance then. Saxon’s mouth is open again, a hint of tongue peeking out as he licks his lips, the hand he’d been stroking himself with wrapped tight around the base of his cock. He’s staring at Fenn like he can’t get enough of him, and Fenn would be lying to himself even more if he said there wasn’t some satisfaction to be had from that. The room feels like it’s too warm now, and he’s hard enough that the lack of friction is starting to get to him. Against his better judgement, Fenn spreads his legs a little wider, toes digging into the thick rug that’s centered under the bed. Saxon’s gaze immediately darts down to follow the movement, his cock twitching visibly as he sucks in a sharp breath. Drawing that reaction from Saxon, knowing that he’d caused it with so little effort, is immensely and immediately satisfying. 

“Touch yourself,” Saxon orders, squeezing himself from base to tip, coaxing a bead of precum from his cock with a shuddering breath. Fenn almost complies without thinking, nearly pumps himself frantically in desperate pursuit of his orgasm, uncaring of his audience. Instead, he leans back on one hand, spreading his legs even wider as he drags the other from his belly up to his chest. When Saxon doesn’t protest, he experimentally pinches a nipple, sighing softly as he gives it a light tug. He watches Saxon the entire time, sees him shiver and grip his cock tighter when Fenn switches to his other nipple and repeats the process.

It doesn’t take Fenn very long to get impatient though, his cock aching for attention where it lay neglected against his hip. He releases his nipple, dragging his hand back down his chest and stomach, until he finally wraps his fingers around his cock with a soft groan. It feels so good to finally touch himself that for a moment he shuts his eyes, gathering the precum at the tip with his thumb and giving himself a few firm strokes. Then he opens them to look at Saxon, and the way he’s watching Fenn with such blatant want makes it even better.

“Kriff, yeah, just like that,” Saxon says, stroking himself in time with Fenn’s pace. “Get yourself nice and wet for me.” Already, Fenn’s hand moves over his cock with a slick sound, more precum gathering at the head and dripping down his shaft to ease the movement further. It lets him go faster, and Fenn groans again when Saxon speeds up to match him. He lets his eyes slip shut, losing himself in the physical sensation as he tilts his head back, mouth falling open in a sigh. Like this, he can almost forget that Saxon’s even there – or he could, if it wasn’t for the low sounds he makes every few strokes. 

“Do you ever shut up?” Fenn complains, aiming for annoyed, but the words just end up coming out breathy instead. He cracks his eyes open to glare half-heartedly at Saxon, the movement of his hand slowing in his distraction. If Saxon is offended he doesn’t let it show. He just gives Fenn a filthy grin, leaning back in his seat and spreading his own legs further as his own ministrations turn languid, slowly dragging the heel of his palm up and down the underside of his cock. 

“You didn’t seem to mind last time,” he replies, more smugly than Fenn would like, considering how he’d acted when they’d finished. He narrows his eyes, his frustration with Saxon growing, but instead of killing the mood it goes straight to his cock. “Or do you only like it when I’m fucking you?” 

Fenn bristles at that, and he has half a mind to get up and end the call just to spite Saxon, the possibility of him just showing up here instead be damned. The throbbing of his own cock is the only thing that stops him, even as angry as it makes him knowing Saxon had gotten him so worked up without even being here. Maybe it would be better if he showed up and actually fucked him, at least Fenn would have the thin excuse of the natural reactions of his body to hide behind then. 

“Just shut up,” Fenn growls instead, closing his eyes again to try and block Saxon out. He hears him chuckle, and Fenn huffs to himself as he focuses on getting himself off as quickly as possible. It doesn’t take long to lose himself in the steady motion of his own hand once more, as the knowledge of Saxon’s presence fades to little more than background noise. It lets him actually relax a little, muscles tensing and loosening in turn as arousal pools low in his belly. He rocks his hips up on the next stroke, fucking into the tight circle of his own fingers, moaning lowly as he does.

“Fuck,” Saxon breathes softly, and it’s enough to pull Fenn back to awareness. He realizes now that he’s sunken down, propped up on his elbow now instead of his hand. He carefully drops the rest of the way to lay on his back, wincing at the twinge in his neck and shoulder from holding that position for who knows how long. Then he lifts his head to look at Saxon, only to meet his hooded gaze. He’s breathing heavy, precum shiny and dripping over his knuckles as he pumps his cock, and Fenn’s own cock gives a needy twitch at the sight. Kriff, he hates how much it turns him on, seeing Saxon hard and clearly close to release. He can’t tear his eyes away though, even when Saxon breaks eye contact to drag his gaze down Fenn’s body, breath stuttering for a second when he gets to Fenn’s hand on his cock. 

“Come on,” he purrs, “Let me see you cum for me.” The part of Fenn that protests doing anything Saxon wants him to is disconcertingly easy to ignore. He folds his free arm behind his head so he isn’t straining his neck, and then Fenn starts stroking himself faster, pushing himself closer and closer to the edge. He runs his eyes over Saxon without much thought as he does, biting his bottom lip to stifle a moan at the sight of Saxon‘s hand flying over his cock. His hips buck out of rhythm, but he can’t find enough leverage to properly roll his hips in this position. When he gets a heel up onto the edge of the bed so he can, Saxon groans aloud, eyes locked on the space between his open legs.

“ _ Fuck, _ ” Saxon says again, more emphatically this time. “That’s right, open yourself up nice and wide for me.” Fenn can feel himself rapidly approaching the edge, too distracted by the dull roar of blood pounding in his ears for the words to really register. His hips buck a few more times before his eyes slam shut, mouth dropping open in a long, shuddering groan as his orgasm rolls through him. Fenn’s distantly aware of his own cum splattering across his belly as he jerks himself through it, gasping and going limp after what feels like a small eternity. He’s so glad Saxon had insisted he sit on the bed now, it’s so much more comfortable than he knows the chair would have been. 

Fenn hears Saxon moan just as the roar in his ears fades, and he opens his eyes to see him arched in the chair, head thrown back, thighs wide and shuddering as he pumps his cock through his own orgasm. Fenn watches as Saxon’s cum pulses out of his cock, the first spectacular arc landing somewhere out of view of the comm, while the rest dribbles over his hand or splatters across the front of his undersuit. They both pant to catch their breath, and for a few long minutes that’s the only sound Fenn can hear. 

“Mmm,” Saxon purrs, the sound thick with satisfaction, and gives himself one more slow, firm stroke. He reaches out of view of the holocomm and brings back a cloth, using it to wipe the mess off his undersuit before giving his hand and softening cock the same treatment. “Well done, Fenn,” he says as he cleans, taking in Fenn’s no doubt dazed expression and the cum splattered across his stomach. Fenn does his best to ignore him, even as he feels the weight of Saxon’s gaze roving hungrily across his body. He focuses on stretching out the tense muscles of his leg and arm, gingerly pushing himself up so he can close his legs and rest his soiled hand protectively over his crotch. Saxon doesn’t look like he minds having his view taken away very much, tossing the cloth aside and out of sight before tucking himself back into his suit with a smirk.

“I’ll be expecting regular updates on Clan Wren’s activities,” he says as he reattaches his codpiece. Fenn scans the room for something to clean himself up with, frowning when he finds nothing. 

“I thought I was only waiting for Sabine Wren to show herself?” Fenn asks, turning his frown on Saxon.

“Yes, but I also want to know if someone attempts to warn her off,” Saxon tells him, eyes narrowing as he frowns back, “If anyone there tries to help her, I want to know about it.” He’s pulled his gauntlets back on, and now that he’s only missing his helmet he looks frustratingly put together. The color hasn’t faded from his cheeks though, and he drags an appreciative eye up and down Fenn’s body again, a satisfied smirk twisting his mouth. “I’ll be coming there to deal with her myself once she shows. You’ll just have to make do with this until then.” Fenn scowls at that, his face flushing with embarrassment and anger both. Before he can snap back a retort Saxon has reached out and tapped the holocomm on his end, ending the call. 

Left with nothing but an empty room and his thoughts, Fenn growls a few choice insults to himself and stands, stomping in the direction of the attached ‘fresher. He spends a good hour in the shower, first angrily cleaning himself and then allowing the hot water to beat down soothingly on his back, piecing his composure back together. Saxon hadn’t said  _ how _ regularly he wanted updates, and Fenn already has plans to stretch that time out as much as possible. Hopefully Clan Wren won’t do anything particularly noteworthy that would force him to call Saxon any sooner than he absolutely has to. By the time he’s left the fresher and dressed himself, this time in his regular armor instead of the specialized pieces he wears with his flight suit, the scenery through his window has darkened, the sky gone red and purple with the setting of the sun.

Fenn pauses to appreciate the view; from in here, where the biting cold can’t get to him, Krownest is beautiful in a way that Mandalore and Concord Dawn will probably never be again. Not in his lifetime at least, or even within the next hundred years. Perhaps if Satine Kryze had had a chance to truly unite all the clans, without the interference of Death Watch, their people could have taken the first steps to repairing their ravaged planet. With her dead and the Empire in control though, Fenn knows it’s not going to happen. 

The panel by the door chimes, signaling that someone is requesting entry, and the sound pulls Fenn from his thoughts. He opens it to find one of the unnamed guards who’d flanked the entrances to the main hall waiting for him, standing at attention. They inform him that dinner is being served and that they’ve been sent to escort him to the dining room, just as Tristan Wren had promised. Fenn follows the guard down a slightly different path from earlier, and they end up in a long room dominated by a large dining table. Ursa Wren is in her rightful place at the head, her son to her right and an empty place setting to her left. The silence has an added tension to it with his arrival, and no one speaks as Fenn walks to the empty seat. 

“Countess,” he greets with a nod.

“Rau,” she replies, watching him as he sits. Across the table from him, Tristan shifts awkwardly as the silence falls again. Ursa makes no move to break it and Tristan seems unwilling to be the first to speak, a sentiment Fenn shares. 

The tension eases a little when the food is brought out a few minutes later. Fenn’s suddenly aware of just how hungry he is when the fragrant scent of cooked meat and traditional Mandalorian spices reaches his nose. The plate set in front of him is piled high with a thick cut of what might be either bantha or nerf, flanked by a cluster of colorful bite-sized peppers on one side and a pile of sliced blue tubers in a creamy sauce on the other. A steaming mug and a small saucer of broth are added to the spread, and Fenn thinks he shows remarkable restraint by not just shoving it all into his mouth the moment it’s within reach. Ursa reaches for her own saucer of broth and lifts it, waiting for Fenn and Tristan to do the same before she speaks.

“Sha’kajir,” she says solemnly.

“Sha’kajir,” Fenn echos, and they each take a sip. It’s all a bit more formal than Fenn’s usually accustomed to, but if standing on ceremony is what gets Ursa Wren to ease up he’ll gladly do it. He forces himself to eat more slowly than he’d like at first, and it isn’t long before the demanding knot of his stomach has eased into something more bearable. Though now that he isn’t putting so much concentration into just eating, Fenn is starkly aware of the silence once more. He hopes awkward silences aren’t going to become a staple of his time in the Wren compound.

Fenn spends a few minutes wracking his brain for a safe topic of conversation, but precious little comes to mind. It isn’t often that he needs to be quite so politically-minded, not with a clan head at least, and he can admit to himself that he’s out of practice. He has to clench his jaw and stare resolutely into his drink as his mind drifts back to his holocall with Saxon for lack of anything else to hold his attention. Fenn’s more than happy to lay the blame for the tension in the room at Saxon’s feet – if Fenn had been here on actual Protector business instead of Saxon’s orders, things wouldn’t be half as awkward. Even when he isn’t here the bastard causes him nothing but trouble. He’s saved from trying to break the silence himself by Ursa doing it instead.

“Did the Viceroy say when we should expect my daughter?” she asks. She spears a pepper with carefully measured force, and the action tells Fenn more about her mood than Ursa would probably like. Tristan has straightened across the table at the question, obviously eager for the answer. For the barest second Fenn considers how much Saxon would want him to give them, before he chucks the thought out the proverbial window. Kriff what Saxon might want, Fenn’s the one here having to deal with two people who clearly hadn’t seen a family member in some time. Estranged or not and all loyalties aside, Tristan and Ursa were both clearly eager to see Sabine, whatever they might say to the contrary if prompted.

“Within the week,” Fenn answers, “Though it could be longer. Saxon didn’t see fit to share his source with me, so I can’t speak to its accuracy.” It’s hard to tell if that’s the answer they wanted. 

“I see,” is all Ursa says, impaling a chunk of meat and a few slices of tuber this time. If this is how she acts when she’s restraining herself, Fenn has no desire to see her truly angry. Even more than before he’s seeing similarities between mother and daughter, in mannerism now instead of just appearance. Not that he’s had much opportunity to observe Ursa, or even Sabine when she wasn’t doing her best to convince him to join the rebels. 

“I’m surprised Gar Saxon sent you here,” Ursa continues, just as it’s starting to seem like the awkward silence will engulf the remainder of the meal, “It seems a bit odd, sending the Chief Protector of Concord Dawn, when any one of his other men would do just as well.” For all that they’re said casually, her words couldn’t be more pointed. Ursa fixes him with a cool gaze while Tristan stares at her with wide eyes, his expression stricken. Fenn’s fairly sure that they don’t know about his time in rebel captivity, and he’s not about to give  _ that _ information away. 

“I’ve had the same thought,” he answers, and he doesn’t have to fake the sardonic tinge to the words, “But the Viceroy was very insistent that it be me.” Again it grates on him to be referred to as one of Saxon’s men, and he doesn’t manage to bite his tongue this time. “And I’m hardly one of Saxon’s men."

“Really? Then what would you call it?” Ursa wonders. “Saxon clearly thinks keeping an eye on my family is too important to entrust to just anyone, but instead of sending his brother, his pet assassin Triball, or any of his inner circle, he’s sent you.” Her eyes narrow, but it isn’t an angry expression. Instead she’s looking at him like he’s a puzzle to be solved, a mystery to unravel, and it’s a multitude of degrees more unsettling than any anger could be. Fenn has a knee-jerk instinct to say something to piss her off just to distract her, but he manages to suppress that impulse. 

“I wouldn’t call it anything,” Fenn tells her. His voice is calm and level despite the uptick in his pulse, and he takes a sip of his drink. “As I said earlier, I don’t speak for Saxon. Whatever reason he has for sending me instead of one of his men, he didn’t deign to tell me what it was.” Ursa’s suspicion is making the gears turn in his own head. Saxon had said it was because he’d been the one to draw the Empire’s attention, and Fenn had assumed it was also an excuse to exact some petty vengeance for his perceived slight. Now Ursa has him thinking there’s more to it too. 

He was sure Saxon didn’t trust him; did he think Fenn would have an easier time keeping Sabine contained whenever she finally got here? He doesn’t know where Saxon could have gotten that idea. Or was it something else? Without more information Fenn wouldn’t get anywhere, so he mentally pushed it all aside for later. “Though I think most people would prefer me over Tiber Saxon or Dietrich Triball,” Fenn says a moment later, taking another bite of his food.

“Is one watcher in my home preferable to another, do you mean,” Ursa answers curtly. It’s obviously rhetorical, and silence falls once more. Tristan’s gaze darts between Fenn and his mother, and whatever it is he must want to say to her, he keeps it to himself. A glance at his all but empty plate has Fenn taking a final sip of his drink before pushing back his chair to stand. 

“Thank you for the hospitality, Countess, but I believe I’ll be retiring for the evening,” he announces. His delivery’s a little stiff, but right now it’s more effort than Ursa is putting into being polite. 

“Good evening,” she replies just as stiffly, giving him a sharp nod. Fenn doesn’t run when he leaves, but it’s definitely a brisk walk. There’s no one in the hall when he steps out of the dining room, and the memory of Tristan’s expression has him pausing at the end of the hallway. Another look reveals that there really aren’t any guards in sight, so he quietly doubles back to stand just beside the open doorway, well out of sight of anyone still inside. He can hear Tristan and Ursa’s quiet conversation as he approaches, but it’s not until he’s stopped that he can make out what they’re saying.

“If you had his trust, then he wouldn’t have sent Fenn Rau to watch us!” Ursa’s tone is sharp, and Fenn doesn’t envy Tristan being on the receiving end of it.

“Or maybe he sent him as an opportunity to show that we  _ are _ trustworthy,” Tristan counters, and that has him paying even more attention. Could he have learned something when he joined Saxon’s commandos that Fenn wouldn’t know?

“What do you mean?” Ursa asks after a moment, sounding just as curious as Fenn feels.

“I tried to tell you earlier, but you didn’t give me the chance. I think I know why he sent Rau, instead of his brother or Triball.”  _ Don’t get to it all at once, _ Fenn can’t help but think with an exasperated roll of his eyes.

“And?” Ursa prompts, sounding impatient and vaguely annoyed.

“There’s a rumor I heard from a few of the other members of my squad – or at least, I thought it had to be a rumor,” Tristan explains. “That Saxon and Rau have been – well, uh...” He coughs and trails off, evidently uncomfortable with the subject matter. Or maybe he’s just at a loss for politer terms than Saxon’s men must have put it in, now that Fenn is sure he knows where this is going.

“Sleeping together?” Ursa finishes helpfully, and Fenn can practically hear the surprised arch of her brows.

“Yes.” Kriff, it was bad enough that his Protectors and Saxon’s men knew, and now he’d have to deal with Ursa Wren’s judgmental gaze too. He’s sure she won’t be shy about trying to use this information to her advantage either. At this rate half the galaxy would know. 

“And you think Saxon sending his lover is a show of trust.” For all that she’d sounded surprised before, Ursa doesn’t seem skeptical of the idea now that she’s had a moment to think about it, and that was almost worse. Fenn nearly gives himself away at being referred to as Saxon’s lover, barely managing to restrain a derisive snort.

“He knows that I would have heard about them by now, and if it’s as serious as my squadmates made it sound, then sending Rau here alone was a calculated move,” Tristan insists, “There’s not anything stopping us from taking him hostage and using him as leverage.”

“Aside from all of Saxon’s men and the entirety of the Protectors,” Ursa says flatly.

“Sure, but that would mean risking killing Rau in a rescue attempt, and I don’t think he’d do that any more than we’d risk getting father hurt.” Fenn would give it to Tristan, he certainly sounds like he believes what he’s saying, and surprisingly enough Ursa seems to be buying the theory too. He can only sigh softly and run a hand down his face as he walks away, having heard more than enough. Now that he knows what it is that had been so blatantly eating at Tristan, he’s satisfied. The poor kid must have been having heart palpitations, thinking his mother was actively antagonizing the Viceroy’s  _ boyfriend. _

Fenn allows himself a humorless chuckle as he steps into his room and increases the lights to seventy percent. Night had completely fallen since he’d left, and the room is pitch black. At least the Countess might be a little less hostile, now that she thinks Fenn had been sent here less to watch her and more as some weird show of trust. He isn’t convinced Saxon actually trusts anyone, but far be it from him to break that illusion while it might benefit him. The idea that he’s Saxon’s lover doesn’t leave as bad a taste in his mouth as he would have thought, and he’ll readily admit he prefers the fiction to anyone knowing the real details of his and Saxon’s deal.

He goes about the business of removing his armor and putting it on the rack, and after a moment's consideration ditches his socks and jumpsuit too. In spite of, or maybe because of the wintery hellscape outside, the inside of the Wren compound is surprisingly warm, especially here in his room. It’s cooler in the halls and dining room, enough that he can comfortably wear his full armor and undersuit, but he won’t get anything approaching a good night’s sleep if he tries to wear anything but the bare minimum in here, though it certainly hadn’t been this hot earlier. A brief inspection of the panel by the door reveals no kind of thermostat access, so Fenn settles into bed in just his underwear. 

The mattress is luxuriant compared to his own bed, and Fenn lets out a content sigh as he sinks into the pillows, dimming the lights via voice command. He’s asleep only a scant few minutes after his head hits the pillow, the exhaustion of the day finally catching up to him.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this whole situation is taking more words to resolve than I anticipated, so have a shorter chapter now and expect another fairly soon
> 
> as always, thanks to everybody who's read, and double thanks to everybody who's commented!

When Fenn wakes up, it’s to a dry mouth and the vague beginnings of a headache. When he finally opens his eyes, he has to squint to see past the blinding morning light bouncing off the snow outside his window. His room at the Wren compound comes into focus as he sits up and scrubs a hand over his face, and he blinks a few times to clear his vision. Usually he’s up at the crack of dawn, back at the Protectors camp, but Krownest’s sun has long since risen already. He can’t recall at the moment if Krownest is a few hours ahead of Concord Dawn or not. Maybe he’d just been more tired than he’d thought. The room isn’t as warm as it was when he’d gone to bed last night, closer to how it had felt when Tristan had first shown him to it. He’s kicked the covers away sometime during the night, and now the slight chill of the room raises goosebumps all over his bare skin. They must keep the sleeping quarters warmer after sunset to facilitate easier sleep, then lower the heat again once morning breaks. 

A glance at the chrono sitting on one of the nightstands reveals that it isn’t quite as late as he’d first thought. Still later than he usually slept, but not by half as much as he’d feared. Fenn drags himself to his feet and then into the ‘fresher, going about his morning routine with a marked lack of gusto. He downs a glass of water once he’s done, which helps a bit with the dry mouth and impending headache. Food and caf are still in order though, so he dresses and decides to brave the halls. 

There’s no one waiting for him like he’d been halfway expecting. An empty hallway greets him when he steps out of his room, and Fenn pauses as the door closes behind him to consider where to go. He could take the same path as last night to the dining room he’d been shown to, but he’d doubtlessly run into someone going that way. Fenn’s sure that Ursa has plans to keep him under close watch for the duration of his stay, and he isn’t looking forward to having a near constant shadow. On the other hand, his stomach is keeping him well informed of just how empty it is, and familiarizing himself with the compound’s layout would be much easier with someone to show him around.

Another hungry gurgle of his stomach and the enduring grogginess from a lack of caf is all that it takes to have him choosing the path to the dining room. It doesn’t take him long to make his way there, and to find out that the formal dining room he’d eaten in with Ursa last night is devoid of food or people. Further down the hallway he finds a pair of Wren guards, who in turn direct him to where he can actually get himself some breakfast. They’re polite, if clearly a little unsure of how to act around him. Fenn winds up in a smaller, much less formal dining room further down the same hallway, well worn in the way that regularly used places tend to be. There’s no one here either, but as he enters a droid toddles out of a small connected kitchen to serve him. Soon enough he has a plate of meat, eggs, and toast, with a steaming cup of caf on the side, and Fenn enjoys the quiet and relative solitude while he can. 

He’s cleared his plate, taking his time enjoying a second cup of caf when someone finds him. Tristan Wren sticks his head through the open doorway, scanning the room once before his gaze lands on Fenn. He looks relieved to have found him, straightening up before stepping into the room proper.

“Ah, Chief Protector, good morning,” he says, hesitating for a split second before coming closer. He carries his helmet in the crook of one arm instead of wearing it, shifting it in his grip as he stops beside the table.

“Tristan. Good morning,” Fenn replies. He makes no move to get up and says nothing else, taking another sip of caf. Either Tristan has come to take him to see Ursa again, or Ursa sees no need for more discussion just yet and he’s the one who’s going to be shadowing Fenn for the day. Whichever it is, Fenn’s in no hurry. Tristan seems to weigh what he wants to say next, just as unsure as the two guards had been earlier.

“My mother asked me to show you around today, if you’d like,” he settles on, apparently deciding to go for casual instead of the much more formal approach he’d taken yesterday. Fenn doesn’t know what had prompted the switch, but already he has a preference for this. Watching Tristan be so tense and careful, knowing it was because of his connection to Saxon, had been frustrating, and it had only left Fenn feeling tense and awkward himself. He takes a final drink of caf and stands, scooping his helmet up and holding it at his side.

“Yes, I think I would,” Fenn says. If Tristan expected him to say no he hides it well, giving a ready nod and turning to lead Fenn out of the room.

“Alright,” he announces, “What would you like to see first?”

* * *

Fenn ends up with a full tour of the central structure they’re currently in, which lasts a good couple of hours. Some parts of it get glossed over, like the small wing where Tristan and the core Wren family’s private rooms are, but otherwise it appears Fenn has been given full access to the compound. Their final stop before they’ll branch out in the direction of the hangar is a small training room, though truly it only seems that way because Fenn has gotten so used to sparring in huge empty hangars, or outside entirely. It has the usual lightly padded mats, with a small rack of training weapons on the far wall, where Fenn can see simple staves and blunted beskad, alongside a few other traditional weapons. 

He doesn’t expect Tristan’s cautious offer to spar, but after a moment's thought Fenn accepts. It’s almost certainly an olive branch after the uncomfortable dinner last night, and Fenn has no intention of letting Tristan think he’s holding a grudge. He can’t remember the last time he’d sparred that hadn’t just been hand to hand, but he still catches the staff that’s tossed to him with ease. He adjusts his grip, getting a feel for it as he walks to the center of the room, and even as long as it’s been, muscle memory has him shifting his feet to take up a ready stance. Across from him Tristan does the same, each of them bowing shallowly to the other. 

Tristan makes the first move, aiming a strike at Fenn’s left side. It only connects with the metal of his staff as he bats it away, and the fight falls into an easily predictable back and forth. Then Tristan leaves a blatantly obvious opening, and Fenn narrows his eyes in a frown. He takes it, knocking Tristan’s staff aside and sweeping his feet out from under him, but there’s no satisfaction in the victory. Tristan lands on his back with a wince, and Fenn cuts him off before he can say anything.

“If you aren’t going to take this seriously, you’re wasting my time,” he says. Tristan snaps his mouth shut, biting back whatever he’d been about to reply with when he sees Fenn’s scowl. He sits up and gets to his feet with a sheepish nod instead, resetting to a ready stance once more. This time the fight is faster, Tristan using the advantage of his height to press harder, and Fenn lets himself relish the rush of adrenaline that comes with it. He has to work to find an opening now, even as he turns aside Tristan’s strikes and circles him. When Fenn knocks him down with a blow to the backs of his knees, it feels like he’s earned it this time.

“Better,” he says, offering Tristan a hand up once he’s yielded. He takes it, letting Fenn pull him back to his feet. “You have plenty of talent, but rely too much on your size,” Fenn tells him over his shoulder, returning his staff to the weapons rack. “I can see why Saxon recruited you.” He may not like Saxon, or his men, but he isn’t foolish enough to underestimate them. Saxon has sniped more than a few potential Protectors out from under him over the years, so he has no doubts about the quality of his Commandos. At least Tristan doesn’t seem too put out with having lost legitimately this time, and if anything looks a little more at ease now, though at the mention of Saxon he awkwardly shifts his weight from one foot to the other.

“Thank you,” he replies after a moment, coming closer to return his staff to the rack too. Fenn can imagine what kind of things Saxon’s men have said about him, given Tristan’s behavior last night. Stars know the Protectors and Saxon’s Commandos have no love lost between them, even if they apparently do know Fenn and Saxon are sleeping together. He doesn’t see them getting along suddenly just because they think he and Saxon are in a relationship. 

“So, is there a reason you deliberately threw the first match?” Fenn asks as Tristan’s putting his staff up. He nearly fumbles and drops it, recovering just in time and clearing his throat.

“After last night, I didn’t want to –,” Tristan begins, cuts himself off, “I really am sorry about last night, the Countess–, my mother –”  Fenn raises a hand and he goes silent.

“I’d rather you beat me fairly than let me win because you think you have to,” Fenn tells him sternly, “And I don’t take the Countess’ behavior personally. Clan Wren’s position is a difficult one. I can hardly blame her for her anger, given the situation.” Tristan’s almost desperate expression changes to something hopeful as tension drains from his shoulders, and Fenn has to look away. He walks to the opposite edge of the mats where he’s left his helmet, bending to scoop it up and frown down at his reflection in the visor. 

He doesn’t want to give the Wrens any false hope. However much he might want to be able to just turn a blind eye if Sabine shows, he can’t afford to. Fenn has a responsibility to his people – just as every Protector swears an oath of loyalty to him and Mandalore, he in turn has a duty to them. Failing to report Sabine Wren’s appearance would be an ultimately selfish decision that could very well cost his Protectors their lives. Saxon might have implied he’d receive the punishment if Sabine escaped, but Fenn knew he had no compunctions about using the Protectors to get to him. That’s exactly what he’d done to get Fenn’s cooperation in the first place, after all. 

“Thank you,” Tristan says, and it pulls Fenn from his thoughts. He retrieves his helmet too, glancing at an old analog chrono hanging high on the wall. “We should have enough time to see the hangar before lunch. Unless you’d rather eat first?” Fenn shakes his head, half in response and half to clear his head.

“Lead on,” Fenn tells him, “I’ve been wanting a closer look at that transport I saw yesterday.” He’d been too distracted by the sight of Tristan’s armor and the thought that Saxon already had a man there before, then by Saxon himself, and then by Ursa Wren, but now he remembers the ship that had been parked in the hangar when he arrived. It had the basic shape of a standard Kom’rk transport, but there were enough obvious modifications to pique his curiosity. Tristan blinks, shooting him a glance as he takes them down the long hallway that goes to the hangar.

“The Kom’rk?” he says, “You’d have to ask Kista – Kista Thano, she’s the head mechanic. I don’t know what exactly she’s modified, but I know she’s always tinkering with something.” The walk feels somehow shorter today than it had when he first arrived, and before Fenn knows it they’re stepping into the much cooler air of the hangar. His fighter is safely tucked off to one side, while the transport sits in the same place he’d seen it the first time, just different enough from how it should be to catch Fenn’s eye. 

“She should be around here somewhere,” Tristan says, walking off in the direction of another personnel-sized door to the left of the ship. Fenn takes the opportunity to circle the Kom’rk, eyeing the bits that stick out to him. The engines look like they’d been altered, whether for more power or to compensate for some internal flaw he can’t tell from here. There’s something different about the sensor array that he can't quite put his finger on, alongside a multitude of other small changes. Before he can speculate further the sound of approaching conversation alerts him to Tristan’s return, and he turns away from the ship to face him. A short woman in what most would consider the bare minimum of armor is with him, an eager bounce to her step.

“Kista Thano!” she announces before Tristan can introduce her, sticking her hand out the second she’s close enough. “I hear you want to know about my mods!” Tristan, for all that he’d winced in surprise at the sheer volume of her voice initially, just looks resigned now. 

“Yes,” Fenn says at a much more reasonable level, taking her hand and shaking it. “Fenn Rau. I have to admit, I haven’t seen modifications quite like this on a Kom’rk before.” Kista beams, and Fenn gets the distinct impression she doesn’t get the opportunity to talk about her work very often. 

“Oh, the Chief Protector! I’d heard you were here, but I didn’t think you’d be interested in any of my work!” Kista chirps, voice still a bit louder than you’d expect from someone at this distance. She doesn’t give him a chance to respond, immediately starting in on a lengthy explanation of what seemed to be everything she’d ever done to the transport. Fenn understands what she’s saying, he has more than a passing knowledge of mechanics as far as it pertains to ships, but with the non-stop breakneck way she speaks he nearly loses the thread a few times. He’s beginning to wonder if she’ll ever stop to breathe when Tristan’s comm chirps, cutting through her explanation of the changes she’d made to the comms console wiring harness. Tristan wastes no time raising his gauntlet and tapping a button to open the line, looking relieved at the interruption.

“Yes?” he answers, almost subconsciously straightening. 

“Where are you?” Ursa’s voice demands, slightly distorted from coming through the tiny speaker.

“We’re in the hangar,” Tristan tells her, glancing at Fenn and Kista. “I was just finishing showing Protector Rau around. What is it?”

“Meet me in the great hall. Both of you.” Ursa’s voice is terse, and she cuts the line on her end immediately after giving the order, leaving Tristan no time to respond.

“Oooh, sounds serious!” Kista says in the beat of silence after, still entirely too chipper. “You should probably hurry!” She turns to Fenn then. “You can come find me again later if you want to hear more about my mods!”

“Of course,” he says with a nod, mostly sincere. He really is interested in whatever she’s done to the ship, even if Kista’s entire demeanor is a little odd. Fenn can’t blame Tristan for being eager to get away, he clearly has no interest in the topic, which must make listening to Kista prattle on about it a chore for him. Now he’s serious and focused, walking at a brisk pace back to the other side of the compound with Fenn close behind him. It takes even less time now that they’re in a hurry, and they enter the high-ceilinged room where Fenn had first met Ursa just a few minutes later. She isn’t in her seat on the dais, but rather standing in the middle of the room, helmet at her side and frowning. She turns to them when they enter, her expression stony.

“Countess,” Fenn greets as they approach, “What was so urgent?” 

“A shuttle has entered Krownest’s atmosphere, claiming to be my daughter,” Ursa says. Tristan stiffens beside him almost imperceptibly, and Ursa shifts her attention to him. “Take a team to intercept and ground it. Find out just who is on that ship.” Tristan gives a sharp nod, sliding on his helmet and turning to jog in the direction of the armory, giving orders through his comm as he does. Fenn watches him go, frowning himself now as he looks back to Ursa.

“‘Claiming to be’?” he says, skeptical. He can’t imagine anyone who would want to announce themselves as Sabine Wren here, or what benefit they’d get from it. 

“Yes, claiming to be. It might be Sabine, but it could just as easily be someone using her name.” Ursa shoots him a flat look. “Until I know for certain, I’m not going to chance wasting the Viceroy’s time. You are, of course, free to contact him yourself.” Personally, Fenn would  _ love _ to waste Saxon’s time. The only downside in this case would be the fact that he’d come here, and if Sabine wasn’t here when he did, Saxon would probably just decide to wait for her. And if that happened, Fenn wouldn’t get a moment's peace. So he nods.

“As I agreed, I won’t interfere with Clan Wren business,” Fenn tells her, “But if your daughter is on that shuttle, I need to be given that information.” Ursa takes a deep breath, clenching her jaw before forcing herself to relax again.

“Of course,” she says. Fenn gives her a nod of his own before he leaves, taking the path back to his room. He passes a few Wren warriors as he leaves the great hall, but the hallway outside his room is just as empty as it had been that morning. If Sabine Wren is on that shuttle, and Fenn is almost certain she is, the best thing he can do is stay out of sight. Knowing he was here would change what was already going to be significant family drama into something a lot more serious, and no one could accuse Mandalorians of being passive aggressive. 

Even as much as Fenn hates helping Saxon, his hands are tied. Despite the fact that she’d been the face of his captivity with the rebels, he doesn’t hold a grudge against Sabine. The rebels had treated him well, and even if her visits had always been transparent recruitment attempts, the break from the monotony of imprisonment had done him good. Helping Saxon ambush her and putting pressure on Clan Wren might put a bad taste in his mouth, but it’s still less of a blow to his pride than some of the other things Saxon’s made him do. As much as part of him would like to give the Wren’s a chance to possibly reconcile without interference, Sabine had made her choice when she’d joined the rebels. So Fenn crosses the room once he’s ensured the door has locked behind him and taps the controls for the holocomm. It takes a minute to connect, but soon enough Saxon’s form flickers into view.

“Fenn.” Saxon grins at him, undeterred by the annoyed frown Fenn can feel spreading across his face not two seconds after hearing Saxon’s voice. “I didn’t expect to be hearing from you so soon. Miss me already?” It’s clearly meant to get a rise out of him, but even knowing that Fenn can’t restrain a roll of his eyes, or a snippy retort.

“Keep your wishful thinking to yourself,” Fenn snaps back, but if anything it only makes Saxon smug at having successfully needled him. It’s an effort to reign in his aggravation and continue in an even tone of voice, but he manages. “Someone announcing themselves as Sabine Wren has entered Krownest’s atmosphere in a shuttle.” Saxon’s gaze sharpens at that, expression shifting from amused to serious as he narrows his eyes slightly.

“And?” He watches Fenn, expectant. 

“The Countess isn’t convinced. She believes it could be an impostor.” Fenn pauses then, and Saxon tilts his head in thought.

“I take it you don’t agree?” Saxon prompts when he’s evidently gone quiet for too long, and he almost denies it.

“Yes,” Fenn finally confirms after a few seconds, “I don’t see what someone would gain, trying to impersonate Sabine Wren to her own clan.”

“Well, I suppose we’ll soon find out just how loyal Clan Wren really is,” Saxon says, the tense set of his shoulders relaxing. “Keep an eye on the situation until I arrive, and confirm whether or not Sabine Wren is present.” Fenn grimaces. That’s the last thing he wants to do. Saxon doesn’t give him a chance to argue though, ending the call on his end before Fenn can protest his new orders. He pinches the bridge of his nose with a frustrated sigh, appreciating the warmth and silence of his room for another minute. Then he’s straightening and sliding his helmet on, checking that his gear is all in place before he leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anyone who figures out what character Kista is a blatant ripoff of gets a gold star


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> after rewatching it for these chapters, I have a lot of questions about how “Legacy of Mandalore” happened in canon; like Saxon pulling not one but TWO blasters from literally nowhere during and after his duel with Sabine, how Saxon and his men got to the area behind Ursa’s throne so quickly, exactly how many commandos there were in the great hall throwdown, and why Gar couldn’t just take the damn win of getting the Darksaber + two rebel/Jedi captives (though after the Siege of Mandalore Clone Wars arc, I realize it’s probably bc Ursa betrayed his faction of Death Watch and sided with Bo-Katan’s, and he’s been waiting YEARS to get revenge for that 😬)
> 
> but, more than any of that, I want to know what witchcraft Clan Wren cast to make the layout of their dumb house work
> 
> someone please save me from trying to decipher the Wren stronghold’s layout in canon I am a broken man

Letting Sabine or Ursa see him would be counterproductive, so Fenn would have to be stealthy about this. 

He makes his way back to the hangar, scanning the wall that the large hangar doors span, searching for a personnel door that will lead out to the landing platform. It takes him a minute to find one, but then he’s outside and internally cursing Krownest’s snowiness. He takes a second to find his bearings – he’d only been out here once yesterday, and Tristan’s tour hadn’t included any of the compound's exterior. Fenn ends up hiking to the top of the hill the hangar is built into, and from there he can just see the top of the main building a ways off through the trees. Destination spotted, he gets to walking.

It’s far from an easy hike. The snow is nearly up to his knees here, and even with his thermal undersuit and sturdy boots the chill still manages to seep into his skin. Eventually he reaches the crest of the ridge, and from here he can look down over the Wren compound, the lake, and a good portion of the valley they’re both nestled in. He catches sight of some movement in the trees just past the what would be the great hall, and he activates his helmet's macrobinoculars for a better look. There’s a line of people coming out of the forest, Tristan’s armor standing out at the front. Three figures in darker colors follow closely, four Wren warriors bringing up the rear, and Fenn zooms in further.

Sure enough, Sabine Wren is the first person behind her brother. With her helmet under her arm and face bared, there’s no chance that it’s only someone with a similar build and armor, not when Fenn had had months to become familiar with her. Behind her are Bridger and Jarrus, and Fenn tenses subconsciously. He already knew Sabine wouldn’t come quietly when Saxon arrived, but with the Jedi here things would only escalate further. He switches to thermals when they pass out of direct sight, watching their heat signatures eventually gather in the great hall to address Ursa on her dais. He can’t pick up more than some bits of garbled audio with so many walls in the way, but Fenn is fairly confident Sabine is trying to recruit her family to the rebellion, though it seems like Ursa isn’t having any of it. 

Sabine and Ursa break from the group, stepping out onto the small balcony overlooking the lake, and now Fenn can’t get any audio from them at all. He’ll have to circle around if he wants to catch any of what they’re saying, so he does, starting down the hill where the snow quickly thins until it’s only ankle deep. He keeps back a fair distance still, coming around the right side of the building until he can get an angle on the balcony, but when he activates his thermals again they’re gone. Fenn scans the entire structure, finding Sabine walking down a hallway with Tristan, while Ursa is heading in Fenn’s direction, turning into the armory. There’s no chance he’ll get any audio from Sabine and Tristan where they’ve now entered the training room, and after a quick check to confirm Bridger and Jarrus are staying put, Fenn focuses on Ursa. As he adjusts his audio equipment for the closer target a full size holocomm springs to life in front of her, and Fenn immediately recognizes Saxon’s familiar form.

“– Two Jedi,” Ursa finishes saying as Fenn completes his adjustments.

“You’ve done well, Ursa. Keep them there.” Fenn can’t see Saxon’s face from this angle, but he can hear the satisfied smirk in his voice.

“The Jedi are yours, but my daughter–,” Ursa begins to say, and Fenn switches off his helmet’s audio monitoring function. Maybe Fenn hadn’t needed to be here after all, or maybe she’s only being so cooperative because he is. He uses thermals to check the rest of the building one more time, finding Tristan and Sabine still together in the training room, and Ursa walking back to the great hall, where Jarrus and Bridger are waiting. Hopefully he can sneak back inside and hole up in his room until someone demands his presence. Those hopes are soon dashed when he spots an unfamiliar figure dashing out of the treeline to his right, hunched over to make themselves less visible. They aren’t in Clan Wren armor, and though it’s clearly beskar the plates and helmet are worn and battered, all of it in shades of brown and tan. Fenn watches them make their way inside, and he groans to himself, already sliding the rest of the way down the hill and going after the intruder.

Familiar as he now is with the Wren compound, it doesn’t take much for him to catch up and realize just where they’re headed – they’re making a beeline for the armory. Fenn narrows his eyes, taking the same path the figure has used to get in, wondering what their plan is. He can see that they’re armed, a blaster pistol at each hip and a long-barrel rifle on their back, so they clearly aren’t in need of munitions. Fenn stays far enough behind that he doesn’t get there in time to stop them from subduing a Wren guard who happens upon them. They must not have been expecting anyone else so soon, because they don’t notice Fenn until he’s right behind them, pressing a blaster to the back of their neck.

“Hands up,” Fenn orders, and they slowly comply, raising their empty hands to either side of their head in the universal sign of surrender. 

“That was quick,” they say airily, voice scratchy in a way that belies either injury or disuse. “I was sure you’d all be too occupied with your guests to spare another guard just yet.” They begin to turn their head, and Fenn nudges them with the blaster in warning. They freeze and stay very still while he disarms them, tossing the rifle on the ground by the unconscious Wren guard, then ejecting the power packs of each pistol one-handed and throwing them over too. 

“I take it you’re here with the rebels, then,” Fenn says dryly, scanning the room. He knows there are cuffs in here somewhere, and after a minute he finds them, an open pair laying on top of a bench to his right. “I’m afraid if you’re looking for useful information, you’re looking in the wrong place.” He grabs them by the shoulder to push them in the direction of the cuffs, so he can reach them and keep his blaster trained on them still.

“Oh, I don’t know, I think I’ve found what I needed,” they say, and the only warning Fenn has is the slight twitch of their left hand. Then they’re dropping to the ground and spinning, kicking out a leg to knock Fenn off his feet. Fenn curses aloud as he goes down, unable to stop the fall, but he does immediately roll out of the way of a punch. He springs back up to his feet, blocking another punch with his forearm before he barrels forward, slamming his shoulder into their breastplate. Either their armor is in worse shape than it looked, or they’d had to repair it at some point with something other than beskar, because upon collision with his paldron there’s the telltale creak of metal giving and they let out a pained gasp. Their knees buckle at the addition of Fenn’s weight, and both of them topple over into a pile of limbs. 

At that point the fight devolves into a vicious scuffle, the pair of them rolling and throwing punches and kicks as they each try to pin the other. Eventually the intruder gets their feet between them, planting them both against Fenn’s stomach and shoving him off of them. It sends him flying back to collide with one of the weapons racks, and Fenn glances down when he catches himself against it and his hand lands on a pair of stun cuffs. He grabs them, intercepting the next punch thrown at him to slap the first cuff around the intruder’s wrist. They rear back in surprise, trying to pull away and disengage, but that only gives Fenn the opening he needs to land a punch. They grunt as their helmet snaps to the side, and Fenn uses the distraction to twist their captured arm behind their back and drop them, pinning them facedown on the ground.

“Argh!” they wheeze as Fenn puts his full weight on the knee between their shoulders, holding their cuffed arm in a way that threatens to break it if they try to free themself.

“Yield!” Fenn growls, breathing heavy. The intruder isn’t in much better shape, panting as they keep scrabbling for purchase with their free hand. He twists their arm a little further, and they go still with a pained grunt.

“Fine! Fine, I yield,” they grit out, going limp. Fenn doesn’t let his guard down just yet, even once he has their hands cuffed behind them and climbs to his feet. His heart is still racing, adrenaline surging through him from the fight, and he keeps a careful eye on the intruder as he retrieves the blaster he’d dropped, returning it to his holster. They stay put, only moving when he returns to take them by the bicep and pull them to their knees.

“Why are you here?” Fenn demands, watching them closely. They’re quiet for a moment, looking him up and down.

“They told me the Protectors were Saxon’s lackeys now, but I didn’t believe it,” is all they say, their sneer audible. Fenn narrows his eyes in a scowl behind his visor, but instead of dignifying that with a response he scans the other side of the room. That’s where they’d been looking, before Fenn had interrupted them. After a moment he spots what they must have been after: a pair of what must be Bridger and Jarrus’ lightsabers. He should have known Ursa wouldn’t be so foolish as to let the Jedi keep them. That just confirmed that whoever this was, they were here with Sabine. They must have listened in on Ursa’s conversation with Saxon too, and come to rearm the Jedi.

“The Protectors are no one’s lackeys,” Fenn says eventually, turning back, “We serve Mandalore, not Gar Saxon.” He tilts his head then, curious. “I don’t know where you got that armor, but you haven’t been taking very good care of it from the looks of things. Just who are you?” They remain stubbornly silent at that, and Fenn just shakes his head. It would be a simple thing to pull their helmet off, but the odds of him actually recognizing their face were slim to none. He pulls them to their feet, shoving them in the direction of the door. The guard on the ground is beginning to stir, sitting up with a groan as they gingerly put a hand to their helmet. They startle a bit when they look up and spot Fenn and the intruder.

“Secure those weapons,” Fenn orders, and they hastily get to their feet with a ‘yessir’. “And go get yourself checked out by a medic when you’re done.” Once the guard nods he clamps a hand around the intruder’s elbow, using that to steer him down the hallway. They don’t try to get away or say anything, so the march to the great hall is completely silent save for their footsteps. Then the sound of a ship passing overhead drowns that out, and both of them look up. Fenn can only assume it’s Saxon, and he braces himself for the chaos that is as sure to follow, his grip tightening.

“You can’t do this!” Sabine’s voice rings out from down the hall. They round the corner and there’s Tristan, looking into the great hall, and past him is Ursa, seated on her dais. 

“Yes, she can,” Saxon’s voice calls out, and as Fenn steps up behind Tristan he emerges from the back half of the room, flanked by a squad of his commandos. “Because she is loyal.” His gaze sweeps over Tristan, the intruder, and Fenn, and when it gets to him Saxon’s smirk widens. Then he’s turning it on Sabine and the Jedi, clasping his hands behind his back, completely at ease. Sabine is so shocked she hasn’t even noticed Fenn and his prisoner yet, her eyes wide and locked on Saxon. It’s hard to tell with Jarrus, but Bridger at least seems to be similarly occupied. Tristan had only spared him a single glance, too tense and focused on what is going to happen next. 

“I believe you have something else for me,” Saxon continues, pivoting on one foot to face Ursa. Fenn can see now that she’s holding something. His eyes widen as she throws it and Saxon catches it in one hand, recognizing the hilt now that it’s close enough. No one had seen the Darksaber in over a decade, where the kriff had Ursa Wren gotten it? Fenn looks at Sabine, who’s visibly stricken. She had to have been the one to bring it, but that only raised the question of how she’d come to possess it.

“No!” she shouts, jolting forward, only for Tristan to jump closer and block her path.

“Sabine!” he says, taking hold of her arm and leaning close, “This is for the best.” For a moment it seems like she’ll deny that and rip her arm from his grip, but after a few seconds she just closes her eyes, turning her face away in defeat.

“I’ve upheld my end of the bargain, Saxon,” Ursa says, “You have the Darksaber. Take the Jedi and let my daughter go.” 

“Your mother betrayed everything you believe in to save you,” Saxon says, leveling a victorious smirk at Sabine before admiring the hilt in his hand. “It’s… admirable. But I’m afraid plans have changed, Countess.” Ursa grips the arms of her chair.

“What are you talking about?” she demands. You could cut the tension in the room with a knife, and Fenn’s grip on his captive gets tight enough to make them hiss in pain. All his focus is on Saxon though, just like everyone else in the room. 

“Twice now you’ve attempted to recruit my people,” Saxon says to Sabine, ignoring Ursa entirely, “First the Protectors, and now Clan Wren.” Ursa’s knuckles must be white under her gloves, but Sabine bears her teeth in defiance. “What did you think would happen, if you convinced your mother to join you?” he asks, moving a few steps closer. “That the other ruling houses would rally under your banner? That they would follow a traitor, who left her clan in disgrace?”

“They aren’t your people! You sided with the Empire!” Sabine snaps, pulling against the hand Tristan still has on her. Fenn has no doubt that if he wasn’t holding her back, Sabine would have lunged at Saxon, Darksaber be damned. “You know what they made me design, what they wanted to use it for, and you still answer to them. If anyone here is a traitor, it’s you!” Saxon looks far from impressed.

“If this is an example of your diplomacy, it’s no wonder you’ve failed to convince anyone to join your little rebellion,” he scoffs, looking past her to Jarrus, and Sabine scowls. The Jedi is surprisingly calm, head tilted as he somehow turns unerringly to meet Saxon’s eyes, even through the mask. Sabine is still too angry to do more than glare, but Fenn sees Ursa and Tristan share a confused glance. Fenn himself isn’t sure where Saxon is going with this – by now he’d expected to be in the middle of a firefight, not listening to Saxon criticize Sabine’s methods like this was some kind of academic presentation. 

“And what about you, Jedi?” Saxon asks. “You’ve been awfully quiet. Or do you always let children do your negotiating for you?” 

“I’m willing to speak to those who are willing to listen,” Jarrus says. He doesn’t talk like a man who’s currently surrounded by enemies and being held at blasterpoint, but Fenn supposes the Jedi always have some trick up their sleeve to give them that confidence. Sabine and Bridger both turn to stare at him, jaws dropping in surprise.

“Kanan, you can’t be serious!” Bridger protests, “We told you about what happened last time–!” He goes quiet when Jarrus leans down a little and lays a soothing hand on his shoulder.

“It’s alright, Ezra,” he says softly. Then he straightens to his full height and turns back to Saxon. “If you’d like me to try and convince you to join the rebellion, I will. But I get the feeling you’ve already made up your mind, Viceroy.” It isn’t the dire proclamation of someone who knows they’re doomed. Instead, Jarrus says that last part with a small smile, like he knows something the rest of them don’t. It certainly seems like he does, especially when Saxon narrows his eyes but still doesn’t give the order for them to be killed or restrained. Fenn’s prisoner is looking back and forth between the two of them as subtly as they can, muttering an almost inaudible  _ what the kriff? _ under their breath. Fenn agrees with the sentiment wholeheartedly, though he stays very carefully silent.

“Have I now?” Saxon wonders, looking down his nose at Jarrus. They’re roughly the same height normally, but with Jarrus standing on the sunken platform before the dais it gives Saxon a few inches on him. The Jedi only nods, and holds Saxon’s stare for a few moments more. Then Saxon holds up the Darksaber, thumbing the ignition and gazing at the crackling black energy that bursts forth to form the blade. “I take it you’re familiar with the history of the Darksaber?” he says over the hum, and Jarrus nods.

“I am.” Saxon doesn’t take his eyes from the blade until he’s extinguished it, hardly even acknowledging that Jarrus had answered him. 

“For nearly twenty years Mandalore has been loyal to the Empire,” Saxon begins. “And now, all they have to offer in return is disdain and mistrust, treating it like little more than a disgruntled colony.” Fenn can hardly believe what he’s hearing. He knew Saxon’s decision to work with the Empire had been for personal gain more than anything else, but this? This is sounding dangerously close to open rebellion, against a galactic force that not only outnumbers them, but currently has its fingers in nearly every aspect of Mandalore’s affairs. Extricating them without the Empire realizing what they were doing would be slow and tedious work, and that was just the first step so they could begin marshalling their forces. Fenn isn't the only one surprised by Saxon’s sudden heel turn either.

“Saxon, you can’t be serious,” Ursa says in complete disbelief. She’s leaning forward in her seat, like if she looks hard enough she’ll see that this isn’t really Saxon, but some impostor wearing his face.

“The time has come for Mandalore to reclaim its independence,” he replies, hand tightening around the Darksaber briefly before he clips it to his belt. “Now that the Darksaber is in the rightful possession of House Vizsla, the ruling houses will be united under a Mand’alor once more.” Fenn hates himself a little for how much he wants this to be genuine, how much he wants to believe Saxon actually might have even the smallest sliver of honor left. By no means has he forgotten how much of a bastard the man’s been, not by a long shot, but some small part of him has always wanted to like Saxon, even if the rest of him wouldn’t allow it.

“Are you kidding me?” Sabine laughs, the sound devoid of any humor, “Do you really expect me to believe you suddenly hate the Empire?” She does manage to pull herself out of Tristan’s grip now, but she doesn’t do more than point at Saxon accusingly. “And what claim do you have to the Darksaber? You didn’t fight me for it!” Saxon lets out a bark of real laughter at that, shaking his head.

“What, and you expect  _ me _ to believe you fought Maul? If you’d fought him, you’d be dead, girl.” His amused smile turns vicious. “No, you probably stole it from him and ran for your life. Though if you’re so eager to die now, you’re free to challenge me.” 

“Fine!” Sabine bristles, turning to one of the guards. “Bring me a lightsaber!” 

“Sabine!” Ursa cries in alarm, leaping to her feet but going no further than that. Sabine ignores her, her focus already back on Saxon.

“I won’t let you –,” she starts to say, only to be abruptly cut off by Jarrus.

“Sabine!” he scolds, and she whirls to look at him, staring silently for a moment in shock.

“Kanan, you can’t honestly be considering this,” she says. Her clenched fists, which had fallen open in surprise, slowly tighten again at her sides.

“We came here to make allies, not enemies,” Jarrus tells her, calm but firm. It doesn’t do anything to sooth Sabine’s temper though.

“Yes, with my family!” she counters, “Not with the person who’s been helping keep my people under the Empire’s thumb for most of my life!” Sabine throws out her hand behind her in a sweeping motion to indicate Saxon. “We can’t trust him! This is probably a trick, to get information about the rebellion!"

“Perhaps a show of good faith is in order,” Saxon says. He raises his hand and the commandos around him lower their blasters, the Wren guards cautiously following suit a few seconds later once Ursa gives her own hesitant nod. He looks at Fenn then, giving him a longer once over than he had the first time, though his expression offers no insight to his thoughts now, before his focus shifts to the prisoner. “I take it this is one of your rebels as well?” he asks, looking back at Jarrus.

“They’re with us,” Jarrus confirms, and finally Sabine and Bridger notice them. 

“There goes our ‘Plan B’,” Bridger mutters, low enough that he probably thinks no one but Jarrus hears, but Fenn’s helmet catches it. Sabine doesn’t pay much attention to her captured ally, too busy looking at Fenn – first with wide-eyed surprise, then with a scowl and glare. Either she’d taken her failure to recruit him more personally than he’d thought, or it was the trap Saxon had set for her and Bridger using the Protectors. Or it could just be the fact that he’s pretty obviously siding with Saxon at the moment.

“You can release our guest, Rau,” Saxon tells him. Fenn breaks his impromptu staredown with Sabine to glance back at Saxon before he does, unlocking the cuffs and removing them as he takes a cautious step back. The rebel rubs their wrists and half-turns to look at Fenn, the blank faces of their helmets meeting and betraying nothing. Then they’re stepping forward and down, moving past Sabine and coming to a stop on Jarrus’ left. Between the four of them she’s the only one still armed, and though she’s practically fuming, Sabine wisely hasn’t tried to draw her blasters so far. 

“Thank you,” Jarrus says, dipping his head in a respectful nod, “We appreciate the gesture.” Sabine certainly doesn’t look like she agrees with that, but Bridger seems to be cautiously optimistic that they aren’t about to be abruptly shot now. “And if Mandalore intends to stand against the Empire, the Rebellion will stand with you. Though we’ll need some kind of reassurance that this alliance will be genuine.” Sabine’s expression goes a little less sour at that.

“Of course,” Saxon says blandly, “I’m sure your leadership will be able to think of something. In the meantime, however, I will require some assurance of my own that this meeting will be kept quiet.”

“I take it you already have something in mind?” Jarrus lifts his chin curiously. 

“One of you will remain here, while the rest take this information back to your rebellion and come to a decision.” Saxon sweeps his gaze across the four of them, landing back on Jarrus once he’s finished. “I leave the matter of who to your discretion.” Jarrus doesn’t quite frown.

“I don’t–,” he begins diplomatically, but before he can say more Sabine cuts in.

“I’ll stay,” she announces, looking back at the rest of the rebels for a long second before facing Saxon again, her expression still set in a suspicious glare. Jarrus, from what Fenn can see of his face, is surprised, and Bridger even more so beside him.

“Are you sure?” he prompts, and if he wasn’t wearing the mask Fenn is sure he’d see an eyebrow being raised. “One of us could stay instead.”

“I’m sure,” she confirms. Then Sabine narrows her eyes even more. “I’m going to figure out just what it is you’re planning, Saxon.” At this point Fenn can tell Saxon has moved past indifference and on to just being plain annoyed by Sabine, blowing out an aggravated breath through his nose and narrowing his eyes back at her. He pushes it aside and shifts his attention to Jarrus again after a moment. 

“Do you have any objections?” Saxon asks while raising an eyebrow himself, and after a few seconds of hesitance Jarrus shakes his head. “Then Clan Wren shall return your weapons to you, and you can be on your way.” Another nod from Ursa sends a Wren guard back the way Fenn had come from, presumably to retrieve the Jedi’s lightsabers and the other Mandalorian’s blasters. After a few more seconds of glaring, Sabine turns away and approaches the other rebels, speaking quietly with them.

“Are you gonna be okay?” Bridger asks. He chances a quick glance over her shoulder at Saxon, then at Fenn. “And what’s Fenn Rau doing here?” 

“I’ll be fine,” she tells him firmly, before glancing at Fenn again too, “And that’s something I plan to find out too.” 

“Just try not to ruffle any feathers unnecessarily,” Jarrus says, lightly laying a hand on her shoulder. “We’ll be back as soon as we can.” Tristan and Ursa still look shocked, like they aren’t quite sure just what to think of all this. Fenn himself is feeling a bit off balance, thanks to Saxons abrupt change of heart. He can honestly say this was the last thing he’d been expecting, but here they are. The guard returns carrying both lightsabers, and the other guard Fenn had left in the armory follows with the rifle and pistols. 

“Thank you,” Jarrus says again as he clips his lightsaber to his belt. Bridger is doing the same beside him, and the Mandalorian holsters their pistols, giving the rifle a quick once over before they sling it onto their back. “I’m sure the Rebellion won’t take long to come to a decision.” 

“See that they don’t, Jedi. You have a day before I decide this alliance isn’t in Mandalore’s interests,” Saxon replies, and Fenn knows he’s completely serious. That was likely as long as he could be away before the Empire started wondering where he’d gotten off to, especially with how closely they seemed to be watching. 

“We’ll be back before then,” Jarrus assures, bending slightly to give a shallow bow. “Viceroy, Countess.” He gives them each a nod, waiting to get one in return before he leads Bridger and the yet-unnamed rebel out. Fenn hadn’t seen any identifying marks on their armor, and their voice hadn’t been familiar either. A mystery that would likely be solved if this alliance actually happened, which Fenn still couldn’t believe it might. 

“So what now?” Sabine challenges, once Jarrus and the others had left, “Do I get betrayed again?” She directs her frown at Tristan and Ursa this time, and though Ursa doesn’t react beyond a clenching of her jaw, Tristan looks away guiltily. 

“Now, we wait for your rebel friends to get back,” Saxon says sharply, turning to Ursa. “Keep an eye on her.”

“Of course, Viceroy,” she says, descending from the dais and approaching her daughter, “Come along, Sabine.” She opens her mouth to protest, but one look from Ursa has Sabine shutting it again, following her out of the room. Another wave of Saxon’s hand has his commandos dispersing, presumably to take up position throughout the compound. Tristan straightens into parade rest when Saxon turns his attention to him, expression quickly shifting to careful neutrality from whatever it had been as he watched Sabine and Ursa leave.

“Go see to it that our guests don’t linger,” Saxon orders, “Once you’ve confirmed they’ve left the system, you’re free to do as you please until they return.” Tristan perks up at that.

“Yes sir,” he says, already moving to follow Saxon’s order. With him gone now too, it just leaves Fenn and Saxon in the great hall, save for the few totally silent Wren guards who, as far as Fenn can tell, appear to be permanently stationed there. Saxon takes stock of that, then he’s turning, leaving back the way he and his men had appeared from.

“Walk with me, Rau,” Saxon calls without looking at him, and Fenn is more curious than annoyed as he follows. He falls into step with Saxon, who’s taken his helmet back from a commando Fenn hadn’t noticed until now, carrying it in the crook of one arm.

“Tell me,” he begins, once the door to the great hall has closed behind them and they’ve entered the relative privacy of an empty hallway, “How cooperative has Ursa Wren been?” Fenn raises an eyebrow, forgetting for a moment that Saxon couldn’t see his expression.

“The Countess has been a gracious host,” he says, keeping his tone even and diplomatic. “Not that you’ve given her much choice in the matter.” 

“Ursa Wren has had plenty of choices,” Saxon says, “I’ve simply provided the incentive for her to make the correct one.” And there’s the Saxon that Fenn’s used to, ready and willing to bully people into doing what he wants. They walk, not to the hangar like he’d been expecting, but down another hallway that he knows will take them in a loop past where he’d gotten breakfast this morning and back toward the great hall. 

“Are you actually serious about this, Saxon?” Fenn asks when he can’t stand the silence they’ve fallen into anymore. Saxon glances at him, his face unreadable.

“And what would you say if I was?” Though it lacks the bite of a challenge, Fenn can tell Saxon’s listening closely to what he’ll say in response.

“I don’t believe the rebels have any chance of winning, not as they are,” Fenn says bluntly. Then, after a short pause, he admits, “But, if Mandalore does intend to stand against the Empire, they could be a useful ally to have.” He isn’t sure what exactly prompts him to take his own helmet off then, only that he suddenly feels like he should be looking Saxon in the eye for this conversation. It feels important, even in spite of how eager he’d been to keep it on around him at the outpost yesterday. 

“It may take some time to bring the other houses into line, but once they’ve been dealt with –,” Saxon says, cutting himself off when he glances at Fenn again. His brow furrows for a second before it smooths back out, and he stops walking suddenly enough that Fenn almost keeps going past him. 

“What?” Fenn frowns, tensing up under the scrutiny. He only just keeps himself from flinching when Saxon reaches out and takes hold of his chin.

“When did this happen?” he asks, tilting Fenn’s face up and a little to one side. He’s about to ask what the kriff Saxon is talking about when the hand shifts enough to rub a thumb from the left side of his jaw to the corner of his mouth, and Fenn can’t stop the hiss of pain that escapes him. The skin Saxon had touched is tender and throbbing in the way a quickly forming bruise usually is. He must not have noticed it before now, between the adrenaline and the protection his helmet offered. 

“I guess that rebel got a better hit in than I’d thought,” Fenn mutters, half to himself and half in explanation. He realizes now just how close Saxon is, practically looming over him and still gripping his chin. When had that happened? Usually he’s hyper-aware of where Saxon is in relation to him, so he can avoid just such a situation. Fenn finds his back suddenly to the wall too, and Saxon gives him a sharp grin.

“I’m sure you left them with worse,” he says, crowding him even further against the wall. “You always were feisty.” Fenn narrows his eyes at that, but before he can snap at him Saxon’s leaned down and pressed their mouths together. So he puts all his aggravation with Saxon into the kiss instead, biting at his bottom lip when the opportunity presents itself and earning a low grunt for his trouble. Saxon releases his chin to reach down and grab a handful of Fenn’s ass, pinning him bodily to the wall and shoving a thigh between his, rocking it upward in retaliation. Fenn groans at the unexpected rush of arousal the friction brings, curling the fingers of his free hand over the top edge of Saxon’s breastplate. 

Now Saxon is licking into his mouth, swallowing the breathy noises he makes when Saxon’s thigh grinds up again and again. He can’t do much more than squirm ineffectually, lifted up onto the tips of his toes between Saxon’s thigh and the hand on his ass. The usual shame and anger he’d feel at letting himself be manipulated so easily is conspicuously absent, and it takes more willpower than he’d ever admit to push at Saxon’s chest. He leans back with surprisingly little fuss, but he’s still nearly holding Fenn up off his feet entirely. Now it seems he’s only shifted his attention, leaning back in a moment later to mouth and nip at the skin of Fenn’s neck. Their helmets knock together with the hollow clang of beskar on beskar where they dangle from their fingers at their sides, while Fenn bites his lip to stifle another groan as he’s hitched up even further so Saxon can rock their hips together.

“Saxon,” Fenn gasps after he’s taken a steadying breath, and has to pause to try and think of a convincing argument for why they shouldn’t just just keep grinding against each other in the hallway like a couple of horny teenagers. It’s difficult when the reasonable part of him that hates Saxon’s guts is being completely silent for once, leaving the part that wants nothing more than for Saxon to bend him over the nearest available surface in charge. Honestly it’s a miracle that Fenn has summoned the self control to try and push him away at all. He’s still struggling to pull his thoughts into some kind of order when his stomach lets out a loud growl, and he remembers that he hasn’t had lunch yet. Saxon pauses, pulls away and blinks at the noise, surprised. Then he chuckles, the sound low and rich and more pleasant than Fenn would like. 

“I see the rebels had rather inconvenient timing,” he says, still amused. Saxon gives his ass one more appreciative grope, then he’s letting him down and stepping back. Fenn shoves down the inordinate disappointment he feels at the new lack of contact to nod stiffly.

“Yes,” is all he can manage to get out, thrown completely off balance by just how eager he apparently is to keep going, and when Saxon begins walking again he follows. He feels more than a little flustered, and he hopes desperately that they won’t run into anyone else in the next few minutes, because he can feel how red his face is. It isn’t fair how unruffled Saxon looks, the color in his cheeks already fading, the only sign of what they’d been up to a slightly reddened bottom lip. Based on past experience he must be hard behind his codpiece, especially since Fenn is half hard himself, but he sure doesn’t act like he’d just been enthusiastically rutting against him.

“Then why don’t you show me where the Wren’s cantine is,” Saxon says, and Fenn takes another deep breath. Now that he’s calming down again, he’s supremely annoyed with himself for what had just happened. So he seizes the change of subject eagerly, taking the lead and moving swiftly down the hallway.

“This way,” Fenn tells Saxon without looking at him, focused entirely on getting there as quickly as possible. He tries to ignore the weight of Saxon’s gaze running up and down his back, but it only brings his flush back fullforce. Kriff, he hoped Jarrus got back soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, trying my damnedest to shove Fenn and Gar into a closet or empty room or something, anything: "JUST BANG ALREADY, JFC!"  
> honestly they're refusing to cooperate, but mark my words I WILL manage to shove more smut into the next chapter if it kills me >:V


End file.
